Aresto Momentum
by Captainraychill
Summary: Aresto Momentum: a spell which slows down or stops the movement of an object.  That which makes you reconsider your path... Draco/Hermione - COMPLETE! Written for Interhouse Fest 2011 on Livejournal.  Thank you to my Beta reader, ivory88s.
1. Prologue: The Blood Inside

**PROLOGUE**

**THE BLOOD INSIDE**

Draco Malfoy sent flowers to Hermione Granger on her third day in isolation at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

Exquisite flowers of the most delicate, iridescent pink.

Neville went on and on about some rare genus from South America, a mountaintop, sunrise and how each blossom had exactly 157 petals and a gorgeous scent used as a top note in perfume.

"What does music have to do with it?" Ron asked.

"One hundred fifty-seven exactly? Not likely," Ginny said. She drew a flower out of the crystal vase and began plucking it petals off, one by one.

"Oi, those aren't yours," said Ron.

"Five… six… Hermione would want me to prove it… seven… eight…"

Harry stood alone, on the other side of the room, watching Hermione.

She lay on a white bed, divided from him and everyone else by a faintly glittering shield. He wasn't sure who the protection was meant to keep safe, her or them. The best healers in Britain had examined her. Experts on dark magic, obscure curses and poisons had been consulted or come forward to volunteer their knowledge. No one could explain why she'd simply collapsed three days ago onto a carpet of bright autumn leaves at the Wimbleton Farmers' Market.

Her shopping cart, its contents, every stall in the market –_everything_ down to the last apple had been inspected and deemed harmless.

Since falling unconscious, Hermione had been in a delirious trance. Her eyes twitched inside her closed lids like someone in deep dreams. Her fingers twitched, too, beneath her leather-bound wrists. The orderlies had strapped her down because she flailed when she screamed. In still moments, like now, she looked almost like her old self. Her eyes shut tight, her mouth moving quickly and silently, a notch between her eyebrows. She was just Hermione, running through complex number charts in her head, being brilliant.

Then she sobbed and tossed her head to one side, and Harry felt a tightness grip his chest.

He thought of his father and mother, of Sirius, of Dumbledore, Moody, Dobby, Snape, Tonks. Every one of them had died in battle, in time of war.

Hermione Granger couldn't survive the Second Wizarding War and then die for nothing, of nothing, in a hospital bed. She couldn't die because she was only twenty-two and his best friend. She just couldn't…

"Remember," she whispered.

That was the only word she'd spoken since her collapse.

Remember what?

"One hundred fifty-seven exactly," said Ginny. "Amazing."

Harry turned, allowing himself to be distracted by Malfoy's amazing Peruvian Roaring flower or whatever Neville had called it. People were like this. When everyday life was cut open like skin, to reveal the blood inside, when they were powerless to heal the wound, they turned their eyes from it and concentrated on the most unimportant things. The alternative was to go mad.

"I'm going to count one more, to be sure," Ginny said, pulling another flower out of the vase.


	2. Chapter 1: Sunrise

**CHAPTER ONE**

**SUNRISE**

Carina Keystone, more commonly known as Kiki, had been the head house elf of Malfoy Manor for 41 years. She had served the Great Family of Malfoy for 73 years. And in that time, she had seen some crazy shite, but she had never seen anything quite like this.

Master Draco was in love with a Muggle-born girl named Hermione Granger, whether he knew it or not. This had become obvious to Carina since last Sunday, when Miss Granger had fallen gravely ill, and the boy had lost his mind.

Carina had first heard the name Hermione Granger in the summer after Draco's First Year, when Master Lucius had taunted the boy about scoring second in his class behind a Mudblood (she hated that word but never substituted it with softer words when she thought of those who used it). This taunting happened every summer for the following three years, until Master Lucius had been incarcerated in Azkaban Prison, bested himself by Miss Granger, among others.

Carina had also learned about the girl from Dobby, rest his soul. She had deigned to reestablish contact with the so-called "free" elf after Master Draco's noble defection from You-Know-Who's service in the winter of his Sixth Year. From Dobby, she knew Miss Granger, in addition to being highly intelligent, was a Gryffindor, brave, pretty, a bit of a radical, the best friend of Harry Potter and that she liked to knit.

And Harry Potter… Carina knew the most about him. Who didn't? He had saved the world from You-Know-Who twice. You had to respect that, even though he had probably only succeeded on pure luck. That had to be the case if the boy was an orphan, poor, ugly, scarred, no good at spells or potions, such a poor flyer he constantly fell off his broom and cross-eyed. Oh, and walked like a girl.

In the kitchen, Carina smiled. She put one of the pink flowers delivered by Special Owl in the bud vase on Master Draco's breakfast tray. The sky outside the open window was still dark.

The master loathed Harry Potter with a powerful enthusiasm. Or at least he had until Sixth Year. Maybe Seventh, which hadn't actually been a school year at all, but a year in which Draco did Who-Knows-What for something called the "Order" while Carina had cared for Mistress Narcissa. The world had thought Mistress was dead, but she had really been confined to a safe house, a lovely cottage covered with seashells by the sea.

Draco must have grown closer to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger then. They had worked together for almost a year after the Ministry fell. They had defeated You-Know-Who together. But after victory at the Battle of Hogwarts, Master Draco had never spoken of either of them as he would a friend. They had never been invited to the manor like Mr. Zabini and Miss Parkinson. Perhaps because Mistress had walked the halls like a white ghost, consumed with grief over the death of her husband. She had only started traveling with friends again last year and was now in Paris, for one more week, with Fleur Weasley.

And so life went on quite normally, day by day, with tea trays and butcher bills and owls to the baker, until the Sunday edition of _The Daily Prophet _was delivered to announce "WAR HEROINE DYING OF MYSTERY ILLNESS" and Master Draco had gone nutters.

Sunday had been mad. Owls flying and people Flooing in and out of the house all day. Carina had ushered those summoned into the library, where Draco had sat at his large desk like a king. He had met with Ministry officials, healers, a goblin from Gringott's, a pair of nondescript men in black and one truly frightening woman with an eye patch and a head full of long, gray braids. When that one had stepped out of green fire in the massive fireplace of the dining room, Carina had thought the manor was being invaded by Gorgon pirates.

And when everyone was gone and the manor was silent, Master drank a bottle of Firewhiskey and passed out. Carina put him to bed, took the paper which had been near his hand all day, and studied the picture of Hermione Granger on the front page. She _was_ pretty, her curly hair rather wild and blowing in a wind. Her dark eyes stared directly at the viewer with an intent focus that would have left Carina feeling slightly scolded, if she were not so self-possessed.

The elf had known right then that Draco Malfoy was in love.

On Monday, he was up early to read another grim headline and receive updates from various visitors. But by midday, there seemed to be no progress, nothing more to report, and the drinking began again.

Tuesday was the same as Monday, with the exception of the arrival of those magnificent flowers. Carina thought they smelled soft and heavenly. She liked the way the pearlescent pink shifted in the light, like the inside of a seashell. When she'd gone to Master Draco to ask if he wanted to write a message for the flowers on his card, she found him asleep by the fire with a tumbled book at his feet. _Hogwarts: A History._ There was shattered glass on the hearth.

On Wednesday, _The Prophet's _headline read "CANDLELIGHT VIGIL DID NO GOOD". Draco cursed viciously, marched straight into the Chamber of Memories and didn't come out until after midnight. That worried Carina more than anything he'd done so far. Unless someone called on official business, which was rare these days, Draco only used that room once a month. Always on the first day of the month. And Wednesday had been the 18th.

Today was Thursday, Herimone Granger's twenty-third birthday.

Against the deep sapphire sky, Carina saw the black silhouette of the little owl that delivered _The Daily Prophet._

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy lay in his bed, staring out the window.<p>

The fire was low, and the room was dark except for the glow of dawn through the diamond-shaped panes. The pink-gold light faintly illuminated his sharp profile and the curve of his bare shoulder. He wanted to turn away.

Before this week, he hadn't watched a sunrise since the day that Voldemort had been killed. This was his fourth in a row, and with each one, he lost a little hope. Feared a little more what might have happened during the night, in another bed, miles away.

His power, his wealth, his Slytherin cunning – they were all useless. What did they matter if they couldn't save her? At last report, Hermione Granger lay unconscious and raving, strapped to a bed in St. Mungo's.

Unless she had died in the night.

He should have gone to see her yesterday.

The choice had been before him. Hospital or Pensieve. And he had chosen the coward's path with alacrity. He realized now, in the pure clarity of morning, he'd acted like an addict. Sifting through the little, glowing bottles. Breathing in the haze of luminous smoke. Consuming memories, like drugs, to avoid reality.

He had always been so disciplined with personal use of the Pensieve. One memory, once a month. It was almost ceremonial. But in truth, despite the restraint he'd exercised until yesterday, it was still an addiction. He could never give it up.

And if he'd gone to the hospital, everyone would have known.

Draco, like all Malfoys, had perfected the haughty gaze, the arrogant sneer, the icy perfection that was his armor against the world. Disdain hid many undesirable emotions - fear, doubt, jealousy. But he knew if he saw Granger, weak and helpless, he wouldn't be able to hide the undesirable emotion he felt for her. He would wear it on his face like a fool. And everyone would know, including Potter and Weasley. He refused to be vulnerable in front of them.

It seemed unbelievable he had fought at their side just over five years ago. He had never been part of the innermost circle, the Three, but he had saved their lives and been saved by them. They had all been soldiers for the Order, covered in blood and grit. He had even found and destroyed a Horcrux.

His acceptance was slow but sure from Potter and Weasley, but Granger never seemed to fully trust him. Even after he produced his first Patronus, a feat that earned him a slap on the back from the ever-vigilant Mad Eye Moody, she kept a wary distance. Always sitting on the opposite side of the fire, on the other end of the table, across the room. Their former animosity lapsed into a long, uncomfortable silence, so unnatural it was eerie.

In the seconds after Voldemort's defeat, as the jubilant crowd rushed Potter, Draco stood against the wall and watched, alone. He was unable to see Granger in the very center of the crush.

Turning away, he'd walked straight to an empty corner of the Great Hall, to the dead body of his father. Lucius Malfoy lay amongst rubble, his pale hair and skin glowing in the newly risen sun. He had died a Death Eater, thinking his wife was dead, and his son, a traitor.

Without another glance at the cheering crowd, Draco fell to one knee, pointed his wand at a loose stone on the floor and whispered, "_Portus._" A moment later, he was kneeling at the border of the ocean and the shore, his hand still gripping his father's limp arm.

For the rest of his life, the smell of the ocean, or tears, would take him instantly back to this moment. His mother screaming from the cottage door. The wild, worshipful look she'd spared Draco before crumpling over her husband's body, weeping. Their long, pale hair intertwined in the sand. He had watched the sun rise out of the sea, tears running down his face, and couldn't tell where the water ended and the sky began.

A week later he had learned the truth from Potter, when they'd met by chance at the Ministry.

"I'm alive and Voldemort's dead because of your father," Harry said.

"What?"

"When Voldemort killed me in the forest, I came back because of the Deathly Hallows. He sent your father over to confirm my death. When he leaned over me, I whispered, _Your wife is alive, and Draco knows where she is. _That was enough_. _He told everyone I was dead so he could enter Hogwarts and find you and then your mother."

"Who killed him?"

"Lupin. I couldn't stop him. I had to protect Hermione. Bellatrix nearly got her with an _Avada_."

"Of course," Draco said without hesitation.

Harry gave him a curious look and then invited him The Burrow for dinner that Saturday. Draco had accepted and then later sent his regrets by owl. She wouldn't want to see him. She would be glad the war was over so she wouldn't have to avoid him every day. He wasn't about to torture himself by becoming a lingering shadow.

He had reached out to Blaise and Pansy and his other old friends instead. And life became a more civil and adult version of Hogwarts for him, divided by Houses. He was Slytherin. They were Gryffindor. He still helped the Order, and there were accidental meetings and the occasional ceremony. But they weren't friends despite everything they had been through together.

Except for her picture in the paper, he hadn't seen Hermione Granger in six months. Now, he might never see her again outside of a picture or a casket.

He turned in his bed, away from the dazzling sunlight breaking over the horizon. _The Daily Prophet_ would be here by now.

Knowing couldn't be any worse than fearing.

"Kiki," he said.

With a soft pop, the house elf appeared at the side of his bed, holding a breakfast tray. The paper was folded neatly between a tall glass of orange juice and a single Peruvian Aurora flower. He looked over the bloom and saw Kiki smiling, her bulbous blue eyes shining.

"GRANGER LIVES - MIRACULOUS MIDNIGHT RECOVERY," she quoted.

She was alive.

A shock of relief and elation ran through Draco, so powerful he couldn't breathe. He lunged for the paper and snapped it open, seeing Hermione's face. It was the public's favorite image of her, a close-up taken on V-V Day. She stared over the left shoulder of the photographer, the wreckage of the Great Hall behind her, blood along her hairline and the sunlight gleaming on her skin. She was a warrior, weary and strong and beautiful, but with a strange expression in her eyes, like wonder and longing combined. He'd always wondered what she'd been thinking at that moment. Everyone did.

Suddenly, a picture wasn't enough. He had to see _her_. No matter what kind of reception he received. Or what emotion he revealed.

"I'm going to St. Mungo's," he said decisively.

Before Kiki could answer, an iron screech ripped through the air.

"Impossible," the elf whispered. "The wards have never been penetrated."

A long moment later, a great boom resonated through the manor. Crackling energy rippled through the air, rattling windows and raising the hair on Draco's arms. As he grabbed his wand, he heard the shout.

"Malfoy!"

It was a woman's voice – powerful, angry and just a bit shrill.

"MALFOY!"

Amplified by a _Sonorus_ spell, the voice now roared through the house. The crystals of two dozen chandeliers shivered against each other. Draco's name echoed five times. He smiled.

She was _here_.

She wanted to see him. His desire to see her had allowed her to break the Malfoy wards. And if volume was any indication, she was fully recovered and ready for a fight.

He hadn't felt this happy in years.

"Who is that?" Kiki asked.

"Granger," Draco said with a smirk.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: V-V Day, Victory Over Voldemort Day, modeled after World War II's VE (Victory in Europe) and VJ (Victory Over Japan) Days. I think this is an interesting way for wizards to say, and yet not say, Voldemort's name.<strong>


	3. Chapter 2: Dining at the Manor

**CHAPTER TWO**

**DINING AT THE MANOR**

Just over a minute later, Carina watched the two of them find each other, each framed in shadowed archways on opposite sides of the formal dining room. The long ebony table stretched between them like a stage.

_It's like a play_, the elf thought with a little thrill of delight.

She'd read folios of wonderful plays in the library and had always yearned to see one performed in a theatre. With a snap of her fingers, the low fire in the massive fireplace behind the table blazed high, and hundreds of candles in two ornate chandeliers flickered to life.

Master Draco leaned against his archway on one upraised arm, looking every inch the handsome and dissolute aristocrat. His pale hair was only out of place in the way he wished it to be, falling over his forehead and glowing white in the shadows. His white dress shirt was untucked and halfway unbuttoned but crisp, the cuffs and collar pressed to razor precision, as were the pleats in his black trousers. His feet were bare. He hadn't had time to _Accio_ a pair of shoes.

He owned the look, however, his confidence and arrogance making his dishevelment seem perfect. He held his wand loosely in one hand, as if he didn't need it, and stared at Miss Granger with bored indulgence. His gray eyes were sharp and mocking.

Miss Hermione Granger, however … There was absolutely no pretense there. She wore cargo pants that were too long and a jumper that was too loose, men's clothes. But Carina wouldn't remember these details until later, because she was too riveted by the strength of the magic and fury radiating off the young witch. Miss Granger glared at Draco, her dark eyes feral. Her hair was a wild mass of brown curls. She looked like she was in _battle_, her wand gripped with white knuckles.

Because she was a house elf, Carina also noticed the white canvas shopping bag Miss Granger had placed on the floor.

"There are more pleasurable ways to wake me up at dawn, Granger," Draco drawled lazily.

_Good line_, thought Carina. She was completely engrossed - and unprepared.

With a slash of her wand and no words, Miss Granger sent the dining room table and its twenty-two chairs flying through the air toward a wall of glass and stone. Toward Carina. Draco moved a fraction of a second later, silently commanding everything to sail neatly back to its proper place with only the softest creak of ancient wood.

"I know you probably eat over the kitchen sink," he said. "But try to have some respect for the antiques."

Miss Granger wasn't listening. She marched toward Draco, toward the table that blocked her path, with a burning purpose in her eyes. Without breaking her stride, she stepped onto Mistress Narcissa's chair and leaped up onto the table. Her muddy boots landed on the polished surface with a resounding thud.

Draco lifted a pale eyebrow and followed suit, stepping onto his chair to vault up onto the table. He used a silent, subtle touch of _Aresto Momentum_ to land silently on his bare feet. He gripped his wand a little tighter.

The dining table had become a dueling strip.

Carina's senses sharpened, her elfish instincts slicing her daydreams to ribbons. It didn't matter that Miss Granger had been ill. She had power and rage. She had somehow defeated undefeatable wards. Master Draco was in danger. Flushing with shame, Carina took a step forward. On her authority, eleven other house elves did the same, ranged strategically around the room.

Draco noticed the movement and without taking his eyes off the woman in front of him, he said, "Kiki, I forbid you or any other elf in my service to defend me against Miss Granger."

"Master," she acknowledged quietly.

Miss Granger's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly to Carina before returning to Draco.

"Haven't you been sick, Granger? Sure you want to do _this_," he gestured with his wand to the table, "for no apparent reason?"

"I have my reasons," she said softly.

Carina didn't see Miss Granger move until a blast of red lightning was racing from her wand toward Master Draco. _Stupefy_ or perhaps _Expelliarmus_. He blocked it, at the last instant, with a Shield Charm, sending sparks hissing across the table. And then the air was sizzling with her hexes. Draco did nothing but block them, holding his ground as she slowly advanced under a storm of flashing light.

Carina felt the heat from across the room. A strange sensation, more pressure than pain, filled her little body as if her ribcage were expanding very slowly. She was compelled to defend Master Draco. She was equally compelled to obey his order _not_ to defend him. Trapped, she looked at him helplessly – and noticed the look of pure exhilaration on his face. He was grinning.

Miss Granger saw it, too, and grew incensed. With a savage growl, she whipped another curse at him, which he parried with particularly good form. She stepped forward to attack again, relentless, and her boot caught on the cuff of her pants. She toppled forward onto her knees, her hair falling over her face.

"Hermione!" Draco cried out. He lowered his guard.

"_Expelliarmus_!" she shouted.

In one fluid, circular motion of her arm, she swept her hair out of her eyes and pointed her wand emphatically at Draco. His wand flew out of his hand, high into the air.

"_Silencio! Incarcerous!_" she shouted.

Through a blaze of white sparks, rope shot out of her wand and wrapped tightly around Draco's arms and torso. She scribbled in the air, and the rope twisted into a complex knot. When she lowered her arm, slowly and deliberately, Draco was pressed down onto his knees. She stood as he kneeled.

Only then, in the silence, did his wand clatter onto the stone floor.

Master Draco's smile was gone now. He couldn't speak. His face was hard and furious, his gray eyes promising violence, like a blade. Carina wondered if she could break through the bonds of his last command if he gave her a look. She waited, her muscles tense, but he never turned his eyes from Miss Granger.

The witch walked forward and stopped a few feet away from Draco, looking down at him. Under the light of the chandelier, her brown hair turned dark gold. She lifted one arm, and Draco's wand flew into her hand. She slipped it into a deep pocket of her cargo pants, which she zipped shut.

"If you could speak now," she said, "I imagine you would say, _What the hell do you want, Granger?_"

His look said almost exactly that, with slightly worse language.

"What is so important to make me get out of my hospital bed in the dark, put on Harry's spare clothes because there was no time to go home and come here as fast as I could?"

Lifting her arm again, she summoned the white canvas shopping bag into her hand and held it out before her.

"Let's just say, I came here for something I forgot."

She reached into the bag and pulled out a glossy, red apple. Even though Draco was bound, she held it out to him.

"Tempting, but no," he said.

Her eyes widened, surprised her Silencing spell had already faded. Carina could see a quick series of calculations flickering through Miss Granger's dark eyes.

"I have your wand, Malfoy" she said. "Don't make me take out your elves. I wouldn't want to hurt them."

"I know that."

"Will you behave?"

"Let's just say, I'm curious," Draco said.

Miss Granger nodded and released the apple. It gently floated down onto the table between them.

She reached into the bag again and pulled out a jar of honey. It glowed like amber in the firelight. Something flashed in Draco's eyes, but he remained silent.

"No? Not ringing any bells?" she said as the honey also drifted down onto the table. "Well, I'll give you one more hint."

Miss Granger reached into the bag yet again. Carina held her breath, waiting to see what great secret would be revealed, her bare feet tapping with anticipation.

It was a book.

Not even a very nice one. It was an old paperback book with yellowed pages and tatty corners.

Miss Granger gazed at it for a moment and then held the front cover out to Master Draco. As pale as he was, he grew even paler. He looked over the top of the book into her eyes.

"You remember," he whispered.

"I do," Miss Granger said. She threw the book down onto the table before him. "Despite your _great _talent for Obliviation."

* * *

><p>It was a lie.<p>

In truth, Hermione only remembered brief flashes of the stolen memory, but there was no reason to share that with a Slytherin.

She knew liars avoided eye contact, so she didn't break Malfoy's gaze and hoped he couldn't read her without his wand. He was a master Occlumens, but also a great Legilimens.

It had taken Hermione years to admit she had no aptitude for either skill. She hated not excelling at everything.

Flying was one thing. Boys and girls zooming around on sticks, throwing balls and getting all bruised up and bloody. What was so fantastic about that? She had learned to deal with not being good on a broom (even though, in deeply secret fantasies, she imagined shocking them all one day when no one but her could fill in for Viktor at the World Cup, and she kicked total arse, capturing a glorious win for Bulgaria).

It still also stung, just a little, that she hadn't earned an Outstanding O.W.L. in Defense, like Harry. She knew this thought was petty and selfish. Harry had a preternatural ability to defend himself against the Dark Arts, and thank Merlin he did, for all of their sakes. She would never wish otherwise.

But the fact that she had no talent for Occlumency or Legilimency was different. It had always made her feel stupid. These magics explored the intricate labyrinth of the mind. They should have been her specialty. She _was_ bright, and she had always been fascinated by the workings of the mind, by subconscious, memory, dream and nightmare, perception, intuition. Premonition.

"How much do you remember?" Draco asked with startling insight.

Hermione suddenly felt nauseous. The flashes of feeling returned with shocking force. Silky pillows sliding beneath her, a man's warm weight pressing her down, an intense bloom of pleasure, the taste of apples. And the pain. Pain that sickened her, needles and burning. The terror of a rope tightening over her eyes.

She knew it was him. The man above her. Knew it with a certainty she didn't question.

Draco Malfoy had done something to her and then taken the evidence away. That was why she'd always felt so _wrong_ when she was near him, ever since he'd defected in the middle of Sixth Year. It wasn't anything as banal as suspicion. She wasn't paranoid or crazy. It was real. It was extrasensory, her lost memory warning her of danger, waiting just beneath her skin like a chill.

The dreams had started then, too, the dreams of the cave by the sea. Before Harry and Dumbledore had ever gone there for the locket.

She looked down at the apple and the honey and the book.

Somehow, it was all connected.

She had been so delighted to see a bookseller at the farmers' market. Her finger had trailed the row of spines, scanning titles. Romance novels in candy colors with gold and silver lettering. Thrillers in red and black, hinting at blood and shadow. And then she had seen it and smiled. Her old copy at home had practically disintegrated.

She'd bought it and placed in her little cart, between a bushel of red apples and a jar of honey. And then she'd felt a wave of nausea, an awful feeling like a nest of snakes crawling inside her belly. Her head had split apart in searing pain, and everything had gone black until just a few hours ago.

"Granger?" Malfoy said softly.

Hermione realized she'd let her mind drift. What had her expression revealed? Cursing, she stalked to the other end of the dining table and only turned back when there was distance between them.

Draco's eyes narrowed as he studied her. Even in ropes, on his knees, he looked strong and so damned handsome she wanted to slice her wand along his sharp cheekbones and watch him bleed. He should hurt. He should be punished, even if she didn't know exactly what for yet. There was always his deceit.

But the truth was she needed him. Only he could draw the memory out of his head. And she couldn't force him to do it by threatening pain or death. Slytherin through and through, he would call her bluff. They were each who they were. She took a deep breath and summoned her Gryffindor courage instead.

"I only remember… certain sensations," she admitted, hot with mortification. "But I know it's bad. I can feel it. I need to see it."

She unzipped the pocket of her pants and pulled out his wand and a small glass phial.

"I want you to give me the memory," she said.

Malfoy stood up and closed his eyes, muttering an incantation she couldn't hear. The ropes binding him burned up in a smoldering fire and fell to black ash at his bare feet in less than a second. Wandless, and his shirt not even singed. For perhaps the first time in her life, Hermione didn't think to ask about an unfamiliar spell as Draco walked toward her. Her heart was racing.

He stopped so close to her she could smell the faintest hint of his cologne. She held her breath as he took his wand from her but not the phial.

"Of course you can have the memory, Granger," he said. "Since you asked so nicely."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: The unnamed spell that Draco uses to burn off the ropes binding him while on the dining room table was inspired by <em>Vipera Evanesca<em>, the counterspell that vanishes conjured snakes (used by Snape during Draco and Harry's formal duel in Second Year).**

**Reviews are welcomed. :)**


	4. Chapter 3: The Chamber of Memories

**CHAPTER THREE**

**THE CHAMBER OF MEMORIES**

Granger hadn't accepted his hand to step down from the dining room table, but at least she wasn't blasting hexes at his head anymore. That was progress.

"_Scourgify_," he murmured, pointing his wand at her muddy boots.

"Oh, please, you have twelve house elves."

"Thirteen. You haven't seen the one shackled in the dungeon for peeling one of my grapes counterclockwise."

Hermione didn't rise to his taunt, so they walked in silence down the corridor and through a large, oak door. As they entered the room, he heard her gasp, and he smiled. His library was impressive, and Granger loved books. The room held tens of thousands of them in shelves rising two stories high. Some of his best fantasies began with her asking to study the scrolls from the Great Library of Alexandria and proceeded to them entwined on a soft leather sofa or snogging in a chair by the fire or sweeping all the papers off his desk.

"Malfoy," Hermione said. "The Chamber."

Snapping out of his daze, Draco walked to a large fireplace and twisted a latch hidden in a carving of a snake. The low fire flared high and then burned black with tendrils of deepest green. The stone wall behind the fire shifted and became like a gray veil. A passageway was barely visible through it.

"You have to take my hand to enter," Draco said and was surprised when Granger didn't hesitate. A shock of pleasure ran through his body at her touch. He hid it, of course. They stepped forward together, through the black fire, which had the pleasant warmth of a summer day, and into a small room with no doorways or windows. She immediately dropped his hand.

For the next five minutes, he lifted Disillusionment Charms, revealing doorways and staircases, in a path growing every more serpentine, until, finally, a pair of ornate, silver doors shimmered out of the darkness. The locks were clearly goblin-made.

"Nice protections," Hermione said quietly.

"Memories are important."

She didn't reply, but Draco saw her jaw tighten.

After one more incantation and a twist of his wand, the tangle of complex locks slithered apart, and the doors opened outward. A beam of blinding light shone on Draco, turning his hair purest white. He stepped aside and watched Hermione as she entered the Chamber of Memories for the first time.

Professor Dumbledore's Pensieve sat on a marble pedestal in the center of the circular room.

The bowl of the stone basin was filled with a swirling substance, not liquid nor mist but some strange, hypnotic combination of both. It moved slowly, as if stirred by wind. Draco watched Hermione reach out toward it tentatively. Her slim fingers looked like feathers against the brilliant light. The substance whirled at her touch.

Dumbledore had made only three bequests to Hogwarts' students in his will. Weasley received the Deluminator; Granger, the book; and Potter, the Golden Snitch that contained the Resurrection Stone.

No one knew until later that Dumbledore had left something else to a fourth student, in care of Professor McGonagall. He had left Draco Malfoy his Pensieve.

McGonagall had told Draco this news a month after Voldemort's defeat, when the Pensieve and Dumbledore's collection of memories were no longer needed at the school. She had also proposed the Order's idea of the Chamber of Memories to him, and he had gladly accepted the task, needing distraction from his mother's grief and the strange feeling of alienation he couldn't shake since the war had ended.

The chamber was small, no greater in circumference than the clock at Hogwarts, but it was high. The walls seemed made of light. The result of over forty thousand memories glowing faintly in delicate phials, stored in glass cabinets so tall they disappeared from sight, up into darkness.

Thousands of people had contributed memories of the war, in order to never forget. Draco had seen them all.

The Pensieve had shown him the whole story, all the secret connections. The prophecy, the Horcruxes, the Hallows. The quick succession of mastery of the Elder Wand from Dumbledore to Vincent Crabbe to Harry Potter on the night of the Headmaster's death. The role played by Severus Snape, how he loved Lily Potter and had served Dumbledore since her murder. A weight had lifted from Draco when he'd watched that memory and learned that his defection and Snape's Unbreakable Vow had not been the reason for the Headmaster's death.

Draco had also archived memories of Teddy Lupin's first steps, Potter's wedding, Christmas at the Burrow. The things _worth_ fighting for, according to the Order. Babies and puppies and rainbows and all that shite (all of which actually applied in the unique case of his cousin, Teddy).

Or, as Dumbledore would say, _love._

Draco had come to believe the Headmaster had given him the Pensieve to make him feel empathy and prevent him from reverting to his wicked ways.

Now, as he glanced sidelong at Hermione and saw her face glowing in the light, he wondered if the old man hadn't given it to him for this very moment.

Hermione held the empty phial out to him again, and he ignored it again.

"Draco Malfoy – December 23, 1996," he said, and a brilliant point of light glittered on a low shelf to their right.

"You've already harvested it?" she asked, astonished. She took a step back from him, anger in her expression. And a sharp edge of fear. That wasn't like her. "Do you… view it often?"

"No," he lied flawlessly.

"Has anyone else seen it?"

"No. _Licentia Recludo._"

A large ring crowded with ornate keys appeared in the air, one of them gleaming white. Draco grabbed it, unlocked the cabinet and took out the glowing memory. Against every instinct of self-protection he possessed, he gave it to Hermione.

She took it, careful not to touch him. He noticed beads of sweat on her forehead. She was pale and short of breath.

"Out," she said weakly.

"Hermione." He reached out his hand.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, pointing her wand at his throat. Her hand trembled.

Draco obeyed. He took slow steps backwards until he stood before the narrow panel of black between the open doors.

_I only remember certain sensations. But I know it's bad. I can feel it. _

She was terrified of him. Some deep part of her remembered how it felt. In the Pensieve, she would see what he had done to her. She would remember everything and never forgive him.

"Call for Kiki when you need help," he whispered.

Stepping back into darkness, he closed the iron doors and left her in the chamber, alone.

* * *

><p>The second he was gone, Hermione collapsed to her knees on the stone floor. Even as she doubled over, trying to contain the nausea that churned through her, she cradled the fragile phial in both hands.<p>

"Breath," she whispered.

It was worse with her eyes closed. The sickness surged, invisible, inside her head. She opened her eyes and stared at the floor, noticing the shallow grooves carved there, like the concentric rings inside a tree.

She had left the hospital too early. She knew that. Harry had begged her to wait.

"Hermione, you'll splinch yourself."

"I would _never_ splinch myself," she'd snapped and then Apparated to Stonehenge, which was twelve kilometers from Malfoy Manor and the closest she'd ever been to it. She'd run across the plain by wandlight, broken through the wards somehow and subdued Malfoy – all on the strength of her rage. The moment after she'd shown him the book, all the adrenaline had drained out of her, leaving her almost too weary to stand.

The things her fragmented memory made her feel – they intensified as she weakened. Pleasure and pain twined so tightly together that she felt repelled and seduced by both and so confused.

When she'd taken Malfoy's hand to walk through the black fire, she had smelled salt and felt rope sliding around her waist. And then a soft, phantom touch stroking the nape of her neck. When he'd handed her the memory, she'd felt a breathtaking pulse of ecstasy between her legs. And then pain, like a nail shoved through the pinch of her ankle.

The sensations were growing stronger. The nausea wasn't passing even though he was gone.

Knowing couldn't be any worse than fearing.

Hermione pushed up from the floor, the edges of her vision black. The walls shifted in a circle around her. She couldn't faint. She _wouldn't_. She stumbled toward brightness and felt the marble pedestal slam against her hipbone. With all her concentration, she opened the glass phial and poured its beam of liquid light into the Pensieve. The silvery mist rippled away and became transparent, revealing the Divination Stairwell at Hogwarts. Hermione barely saw it as she closed her eyes, pitched forward and fell into a cold, whirling blackness.

* * *

><p>She landed at the top of the stairs, blinded by white stone and winter light. With a sweep of relief, she realized she was no longer nauseous or in pain. She felt normal, no sensation on her skin at all, not even the chill that pervaded Hogwarts' halls in December. Below her, the staircase spiraled like the inside of a seashell.<p>

Draco Malfoy was walking up the stairs, alone and dressed in black.

December 23, 1996… it was Christmas break, Sixth Year. He was sixteen.

This had been the year he'd come back to school looking less like a boy and more like the man he would become. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face more chiseled than pointy. His voice had deepened to a pitch that seemed to resonate down her spine. She'd picked fights with him just to hear it and felt a traitorous, little flutter in her stomach when they'd sparred. Sometimes, she'd wished he wasn't Slytherin… She'd wondered how things would have been different if they'd both been sorted into Ravenclaw.

This was also the year she'd watched him decline, week by week. As the days had grown colder and shorter, he'd become thinner and even paler. Quiet. Solemn. Now, of course, she knew why.

Hermione had spent this Christmas break at Hogwarts, too, since her parents had vacationed in New York City. She'd agreed to Floo to the Burrow on Christmas Day but, otherwise, welcomed the solitude of the quiet castle. With Sybil Trelawney away, she'd claimed the cozy Divination classroom as her private reading nook.

She didn't, however, remember Malfoy ever interrupting her there, but his hand was on the doorknob. Hermione reached for her wand, even though she knew she was intangible in the Pensieve.

She moved closer and saw Draco's face. There was no malice in it. There was doubt and apprehension. He leaned his forehead against the door and closed his eyes and stood so still for so long that she was startled when he moved. With quick decision, he opened the door. She followed him inside the classroom.

It was exactly as she remembered it and more. Amazing, that the mind could recall so much detail from casual glances. She could see every embroidered swirl on every pillow on the floor, each chip in the teacups stacked like little ruins on the tower's circular shelves. The red curtains were pulled back, letting bright afternoon light into the normally stuffy room. Water simmered in the copper pot in the fireplace instead of incense.

Behind a red velvet chair, Hermione saw a pair of small feet wearing hand-knitted socks. She walked forward and gazed down at her younger self with almost sisterly affection.

The girl (it seemed strange to think of her as Hermione) was on the floor, half-sitting, half-reclining on a pile of silky pillows. She wore jeans and a jumper and the pearl stud earrings her mother had given her on her twelfth birthday. Her hair was in a loose braid. She'd shoved a stack of tarot cards off the low table beside her and replaced them with a couple of red apples and a steaming cup of tea - for drinking, not divination. A little jar of Hogsmeade honey with a sticky spoon in it sat upon the Eight of Cups card. She was reading her old paperback copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_.

By this time, at seventeen, she was a veteran of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. She had barely survived Dolohov's curse. But she still looked soft, her cheeks round and pink. She was as yet untouched by the hard, angular look that would trim her face during the trials of Seventh Year. This was before Dumbledore died, before the world cracked apart, when the structure of her day was still determined by something as childish as a class schedule.

Hermione stepped back, invisible, like a ghost watching the interactions of the living with fascination.

And then something changed.

_Sip of tea_, she thought. _Shadow, glance up… This room is occupied, Malfoy. Out._

"This room is occupied, Malfoy," the girl said, putting down her cup of tea. "Out."

Hermione's skin felt strange, as if sunlight had emerged from behind a cloud and warmed it. She wasn't just watching this memory, as Harry has described his experiences in the Pensieve. She was _remembering_ it as she watched it, living it again. She knew everything she would see and hear and feel and think the instant before the scene played out. In a moment, she would look away from Draco, exasperated, and try hard to ignore him by reading the same passage in her book at least three times.

_In ones and twos, men got out of the cars. Shadows became substance as lights revealed solid shapes moving toward the jail door. Atticus remained where he was._

Malfoy remained where he was. Soon, he would smile at her…

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

_**Licentia Recludo**_** - a spell I created for this story. In Latin, **_**Licentia **_**is "permission", and **_**Recludo **_**is "to unlock". This spell summons the keys to the cabinets in Draco's Chamber of Memories.**

**Of course, Hermione's book is **_**To Kill a Mockingbird**_** by Harper Lee. Warner Books, 1960. From Chapter 15: "In ones and twos, men got out of the cars. Shadows became substance as lights revealed solid shapes moving toward the jail door. Atticus remained where he was." This is the scene of the attempted lynching of Tom Robinson.**

**Eight of Cups tarot card meaning from .com:**

"**The Eight of Cups is a card of change and transition… The young man in this card has turned his back on all he has accumulated or accomplished before. He disappears by night into a barren and difficult terrain… His journey is undertaken because of a sense of restlessness and unhappiness experienced as a result of achieving all he has desired, yet finding those things to be less fulfilling than expected… He is embarking upon the spiritual journey because he has not found deep satisfaction in the things of the world, the things with which he is familiar."**

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	5. Chapter 4: Recollection and Divination

**Chapter Warning: bad language, but it contributes to the story.**

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR<strong>

**RECOLLECTION AND DIVINATION**

"I said, _out_," Hermione snapped.

His only answer was a smile. Her heartbeat stumbled a bit. Malfoy never smiled with good intent. There was always a smirk in it – an insult or insinuation. For some reason, he was smiling at her like a decadent young sultan inspecting a new harem girl, an impression only enhanced by the fact that she lay on a bed of silken pillows. She scrambled up into a sitting position as gracefully as she could.

He walked closer until one of his shiny black shoes almost touched her knee. She refused to squirm away but held her muscles rigidly locked in place as he stared down at her.

"I think I'll stay," he said. "I rather like you at my feet."

She felt a little flutter in her stomach and frowned. This was Draco Malfoy, bully, bigot, ferret. The enemy. Harry actually thought he was a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake, and even though that was ridiculous, she still shouldn't be _fluttering_ over him. It was just… she had been the target of his gaze for days. He looked at her across the Great Hall, during meals, as if he were trying to uncover a secret.

She didn't understand why he had chosen to stay at school during winter break with his father in Azkaban and his mother at home alone. She didn't understand why he was here right now.

Slowly, seemingly without thought, she pulled her wand out of her pocket and used it to turn the page of her book. She glanced up at Draco. He didn't look impressed. He leaned down quickly, making her pulse jump in warning, his hand reaching for her shoulder. Before she could act, the threat was gone. He grabbed an apple off the table instead and took a crunching bite of it as he stepped back. Then he sat in a red velvet armchair not two feet away.

Determined to ignore him, she found her place in her book and read, not taking in a single word as he ate her entire apple.

"Going hunting, Granger?" he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"To kill a mockingbird."

"No," she answered. "In fact, it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."

"What kind of Muggle tripe is that?"

"It means that it's a sin to destroy the innocent. It's a theme of the book." She spoke very clearly as if she were teaching a potentially explosive potion to a thick First Year.

"Must be a difficult concept to grasp," Draco said. "Since you haven't turned a page in five minutes."

"All right, that's it," Hermione snapped. She shut the book and slapped it down on her thigh. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm bored," he said. "Want to occupy my time?"

"No. And I mean, why are you _here_ at Hogwarts at Christmas? Why do you keep staring at me?"

He answered her with another stare. After a long pause, he said softly, "I have my reasons." His deep voice sent shivers down her arms.

He held out his hand and, for a wild moment, she had the urge to reach out and take it.

"_Accio_, Granger's Muggle book," Draco said.

To her consternation, the book shot out of her hand and flew into his. Had that been _wandless_? With relief, she noticed the fingers of his other hand moving smoothly away from the fabric of his shirt, from a hidden pocket or holster. He gazed at her soft, tattered paperback with disdain, opening it and thumbing through the yellowed pages. Hermione took the opportunity to study him.

He was such an arrogant git. He had changed over the summer, but that had not. At the start of term, she couldn't help but notice how attractive he'd become. Tall, strong and graceful. With those pale eyes, like mercury. His white-blond hair fell rakishly over his brow. And his voice…

But as the days grew colder and shorter, he was somehow diminishing. Gray shadows appeared under his eyes. He'd lost weight, his cheeks grown lean. He spent less time lording over his friends and more time wandering the corridors and grounds alone. She was observant, and she had seen it all.

And now he was lying. He wasn't bored at all. There was an edge of need behind his swagger. Hogwarts was nearly empty. He would have had to seek her out to find her. He was here, in this tower, because he wanted something from her. She gazed down at the honey pooled at the bottom of her teacup, surprised at how right her conclusion felt.

What could Draco Malfoy want from her?

"What's a nickel?" he asked, without looking up from her book.

"American Muggle money," she said. "A small denomination."

"What's a chiffarobe?"

"A wardrobe, for storing clothes."

"What's a nigger?"

Hermione gasped, and Draco looked up sharply. She couldn't help her reaction. That word still had the power to shock her. It was the one word that had made her understand how truly awful it was that Draco had called her a Mudblood in Second Year and so many times after that.

"What is it?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

"A nigger is a Mudblood," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Nigger is a highly insulting term to describe a black person. Very much like the use of the word Mudblood to describe a Muggle-born. "

"What's wrong with black people?"

"Nothing," Hermione said pointedly. "But in the Muggle world, prejudice is often a matter of race, of the color of someone's skin or their religion. For hundreds of years, some white people thought black people were inferior to them, and they used this belief to justify atrocious crimes against them. Enslavement, torture, rape, murder."

Hermione had expected Malfoy to roll his eyes or mock her or repeat some foul dogma about blood purity. But he didn't do any of these things. He listened with a growing solemnity, and when she began listing the ways in which blacks had been persecuted, his eyes widened, and he looked away.

She sat forward slightly, in instinctive pursuit. She'd never seen such an unguarded look on Draco Malfoy's face before, unless he was angry. Without his mask, for just a moment, she'd seen fear in his eyes.

"The book is about prejudice," she pressed on, looking directly at him, willing him to look at her. "It's about the loss of innocence."

He didn't look up, but he did lean forward, just as she had. The quality of the silence between them changed, becoming tense and thick with an almost suffocating feeling of things unsaid.

"It's about courage," she continued. "And doing what's right even when it's difficult, even when it seems hopeless."

Draco looked up at her then, and his eyes were cold and hard. "Granger, sometimes it doesn't _seem_ hopeless. Sometimes it _is_ hopeless. Why fight then?"

"Because you have to," she said simply.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, you do. Evil must be resisted. We have a responsibility to defend the vulnerable."

"Defend the vulnerable…" he sneered. "You are like… a children's story."

"Yes, defend the vulnerable." Hermione felt her face flushing red. "If you can't understand the importance of that, I don't know what to say to you."

"You're so naïve, all of you," Draco cried out, dropping her book as he stood. He stalked away, to the fireplace and stared down at the shifting flames. He gripped the mantle with white knuckles.

"We aren't naïve," she said. "We know the dangers."

"You don't know anything," he said fiercely. "You don't know _anything_ about the danger in this world."

Hermione was unprepared when Draco suddenly turned and walked toward her with long, aggressive strides. She dropped her teacup as she scrambled to stand. Her wand danced perilously against her fingertips, almost tumbling to the floor, before she steadied it and pointed it at his heart.

The threat didn't stop him. He pressed forward until, acting on the irrational fear that her wand might puncture his chest, she bent her elbow. He moved quickly, both hands gripping her shoulders and pulling her roughly toward him. Her arms folded between their bodies, her wand now against the pulse in his neck. She knew dozens of spells to cast him away, to regain her power and escape. But she couldn't make herself say a word.

"Hermione," Draco said.

Her heart gave a lurch. He'd never used her given name before. She stared up into his gray eyes, stunned by the desperation in them. His breath came hard and fast.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Would you fight-" His voice cracked, and she watched a blush color his pale cheeks. He closed his eyes. "Would you fight even if you knew you would die?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. They would leave bruises, but she didn't care. He kept his eyes closed tight, trying to hide whatever storm was raging inside him.

"You and your fucking crusades," he whispered.

Minutes passed in silence as Hermione stood in Draco's hard clasp. She feared what he wanted to say. She wondered what to say to him. Slowly, she reached up and touched the side of his face. The contact was electric, and she felt heat and a rush like adrenaline that left her fingertips tingling. Draco opened his eyes, staring at her in shock. Had he felt it too? She stroked her thumb along the shadow cast by his cheekbone. His skin was warm and smooth, shaved hours ago.

"Draco," she said softly. "What did you come here to say to me?"

He gazed down at her, unblinking, and leaned forward infinitesimally. She smelled a faint scent, like incense, on his skin and grew dizzy. His fingers pressed even more painfully into her shoulders. She couldn't help but wince. That broke the spell. He released her and took a step back, looking down at his hands before dropping them to his sides.

He turned away. The moment was lost. He wouldn't confide in her. He was going to leave.

Instead, he walked halfway across the room to a low table ringed by pillows and dropped to his knees. His face wore its mask again, haughty and aristocratic. But through it, in his eyes, she saw a grim, new resolve. He slipped a small, silver cuff link from one of the cuffs of his black shirt and laid his hand on the table, palm down.

"I want you to tell my fortune, Granger."

She stared at his left hand.

Draco was right-handed. She knew this because she always noticed when someone was not. He would never lead with his left unless he had a reason to. Hermione's heart began to beat frantically inside her chest.

She could turn away now, leave the room. The coward in her desperately wished to. Instead, she walked slowly toward him, kneeling on the other side of the table. She kept her hands folded together in her lap.

"That's your passive hand," she said. "Its reading will tell us your inherent characteristics."

"I thought you hated Divination."

"I do. As do you. But I'd read the textbook before I realized that."

"Of course you did."

"Your right hand is your active hand," she continued crisply. "Its reading will tell us about the changes that have occurred in your inherent traits due to conscious action on your part."

"This one first," he murmured.

After a pause, she unfolded her hands and reached across the table.

Draco's hand was much larger than hers. Pale like the rest of him, refined, but also masculine and strong. She knew his hands could bruise and destroy like any brute's. She also knew they had mastered delicate wand work and complex potion making to a degree of elegance that few students achieved.

She touched the back of his hand and felt a rush of feeling and heat again but refused to look into his eyes. She stroked her fingertips lightly over the pattern of bone under his skin and heard his breathing grow ragged. Her own breathing changed, too. She turned his hand over, and he obeyed her slight touch, his palm raised up now, as if in supplication.

She traced the creases in his palm, the major lines of heart, head, life and fate. Her fingers moved forward, over the border of his wrist, to touch the skin over his faint, blue veins. Blood just like hers, if only he would realize it. Her fingers trailed higher, under the loosened cuff of his black shirt.

She glanced up and saw him gazing at their joined hands.

Holding her breath, Hermione grabbed Draco's cuff and pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, revealing the Dark Mark viciously burned into his forearm.

A second later, she collapsed back onto the floor, screaming in terror, her eyes wide and sightless.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**The concept of active and passive hands in palm reading is fascinating to me and worth Googling. I made Draco right-handed so that his left hand could be his passive hand, the one that rules inherent traits, those traits he was born with. Also, in my interpretation, the values he was raised with.**

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	6. Chapter 5: The Cave by the Sea

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**THE CAVE BY THE SEA**

Hermione thought she had been prepared. That she was brave and strong. But it was more horrifying than she could have ever imagined.

The Mark looked like it had been seared into Draco's pale skin with a large brand. Its lines were a deep black edged with the inflamed red of infection. The snake slithered out the skull's grinning mouth, hideously coiled. Its scales seemed to shimmer and move.

When she looked into the snake's red eyes, the waking nightmare began.

She went blind and opened her eyes wide, searching for light. Somehow, she knew she was in the depths of a cave, in total blackness. She smelled salt and heard the distant roar of the sea. It was cold, and she was naked. Something slithered over her bare feet. She stumbled back in panic, falling, expecting the impact of hard rock against her spine. Instead, she tumbled into a disorienting softness, like cool cushions.

She sighed in relief. And then her bed began to shift and writhe beneath her. Snakes. She was sinking into a pit of snakes.

They were everywhere. Hundreds of them. They smelled her with their forked tongues and hissed in her ears. They coiled their long bodies against her skin, slithering over her legs and belly. Her breasts. She pressed her thighs together with all her strength and screamed. Her hands clawed the air, hopelessly reaching up, desperate for someone to save her, before she was consumed.

A snake crawled over her eyes. As she shut them, sobbing, a hand caught her wrist.

"Hermione!"

The voice called from a great distance, sounding like an echo.

"Draco, help me!" she cried.

"Hermione!"

She felt a sharp pain as tiny fangs sank into her ankle and then her neck and then everywhere. One hundred vipers struck, piercing her skin and pumping venom into her blood. She was on fire with pain. Her screams became shrieks.

"HERMIONE!"

When she thought she would rather die than bear another second, the pain stopped. Her cries ended on a gasp and then disintegrated into sobs. The snakes were gone, but she shuddered uncontrollably, her skin still crawling with the memory of them. Her eyes were shut so tightly her eyelids hurt.

"Hermione, you're safe now. Open your eyes."

"Draco?" she whispered.

"I'm here," he said. She felt his hand in her hair.

"The Mark…" she said.

"I covered it."

She realized she could see light through her eyelids. She wasn't in the cave anymore. The weight and warmth of clothes touched her body. She opened her eyes to the late afternoon sunlightin the Divination classroom and found herself lying on a pile of silky pillows, entwined in Draco's arms like a lover. His face was centimeters from hers, and he gazed at her with raw concern and regret.

"Was it the cave?" he asked.

When she nodded, he groaned and pulled her close to him.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry. I didn't know that would happen."

He whispered a dozen apologies against her skin, placing sorrowful kisses on her brow, as his hands tenderly stroked her hair and the curve of her back.

"Forgive me," he repeated over and over. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Hermione felt as if she had been transported from a nightmare into a dream.

Was this the real Draco Malfoy? Artifice stripped away, arrogance and hatred and schemes forgotten? He was repentant and earnest and sweet. The tremors shaking her finally subsided, and she sighed as her body unclenched and melted against his.

"I'm all right," she whispered. She touched his chest, through his shirt, and closed her eyes.

She had no idea how long they lay like that. It could have been hours. She might have slept. When she opened her eyes again, the room seemed slightly darker. Draco was looking at her, his gray eyes sad. She felt a pain in her chest, a needle piercing her heart, for the choice he had made.

"Draco," she said. "What have you done?"

He looked down and began to move away from her. On instinct, she curled her hand around the back of his neck. His pale hair was soft and sleek beneath her fingers.

"Please, don't leave me," she said. "Not yet."

Draco complied without hesitation, settling back into the pillows and holding her against him.

She knew it made no sense to stay in his embrace. They hated each other. But despite that, his nearness filled her with an almost narcotic pleasure, strange and soothing. And she was afraid that he would shut down if she let him move away.

So she waited. It was not in her nature to be patient, but somehow, she knew silence was critical now. Finally, Draco began to speak, his eyes cast down.

"I visited my father in Azkaban early in July. He'd only been there a few weeks, but the dementors had already broken him. He… told me to take the Mark, for the family, to regain the favor of the Dark Lord."

"_Told_ you?" Hermione prompted gently, hearing the hesitation in his words.

Draco glanced at her with a look halfway between admiration and exasperation.

"He begged me to do it," he admitted. "I've never seen him so desperate. He had always been so strong and proud. But I was his only way out. His only way to save himself and all of us."

He paused and touched a strand of Hermione's hair, twining the curl around his finger. She realized her braid had come completely unraveled.

"My mother didn't want me to take the Mark," he said. "She cares so much for me she was willing to deny my father this hope. But I couldn't. And I knew it wouldn't matter anyway. By then, the Brockdale Bridge had fallen. Bones and Vance were dead. The dementors were breeding, and the mist and the cold were everywhere. I could pretend their power, the sense of hopelessness, influenced my decision. But that would be a lie. Voldemort wanted me so I never had any other choice."

"Can you cast a Patronus?" Hermione asked softly.

"No," Draco said. "Dark wizards can't do that."

Impulse told her to argue that he wasn't dark. That there was always choice and hope. But she remained silent again, waiting for him to continue.

"He gave me to Mark on July 15th. The ritual was… horrible. The things I had to do…" He closed his eyes, unable to continue. His jaw was rigid as he fought against some powerful emotion.

"Tell me," she pressed, knowing he wanted to confess.

"No," he said forcefully. He opened his eyes and gave her an almost hateful look. "I will never tell you that. I will never tell anyone that."

He tried to pull away again, but she reached out and kept him close, her hand holding the collar of his shirt. He reached up to untangle her fingers, and she gave a little whimper and entwined her fingers with his. It was devious, but it worked, appealing to Draco's chivalry. A quality she never would have attributed to him before today.

He was silent for a long moment, holding her hand, before he began to speak again.

"I had the visions," he said. "The cave and the snakes. And more… it took a day to wake up."

"A day?" she gasped. "You endured a day of that?" He didn't answer her.

The cave and the snakes. And more. For hours and hours. How did the nightmare progress? She remembered Harry's story after his second lesson with Dumbledore, about the Pensieve and Tom Riddle as an orphan and the children he took into the cave by the sea. This is what he did to them, she thought. This was why they were never the same afterward.

"When I regained consciousness," Draco said, "I had the Dark Mark, and I was a Death Eater."

He pulled away a third time, and Hermione let him go. She sat up and watched him as he stood, looking a little lost and bewildered. A Death Eater in Trelawney's nest. A Slytherin telling his darkest secrets to a Gryffindor. It was bewildering to her as well.

He walked back across the room to the red velvet chair and sat down. He wasn't leaving. He wasn't finished yet.

Hermione noticed that the low table that had been between them was gone. She saw it, overturned, halfway across the room. She saw her wand near her hand. Sliding it in her back pocket, she stood, walked toward Draco and sat on an ottoman near him.

"Voldemort gave you a mission," she said. "That's why there are shadows under your eyes. That's why you're here during Christmas break."

"Yes," he said. "What do you know?"

"Harry, Ron and I followed you to Borgin and Burkes that day we saw you in Diagon Alley. We heard you talking about repairing an object and that its twin was in the shop. That you didn't want Borgin to sell it."

"Vanishing cabinets, a pair of them. A broken one is in the Room of Hidden Things. I've been trying to repair it. Unsuccessfully."

"To create a pathway," Hermione said as a chill ran down her arms. "To let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts."

As he nodded, she imagined him standing before the tall cabinet as it opened and a line of Death Eaters walked out, in silver masks and hoods. She could see them striding through the dark corridors of the castle at midnight, while children slept in their beds, like some horrible scene from a fairy tale.

"That's an important mission," she said. "Voldemort must think highly of you."

"No," he said with a bitter laugh. "He doesn't. My mission has two parts."

"What else has he ordered you to do?"

Draco looked at her with an intensity that took her breath away.

"Kill Dumbledore," he said.

Hermione recoiled, her eyes wide. The Vanishing Cabinets, that was a solid plan. Clever. She'd felt a grudging admiration. But to kill Professor Dumbledore? The enormity of it… It couldn't be done.

"The opal necklace," she said. "Katie Bell."

"Yes."

"That was stupid," she snapped. "And dangerous."

"I know," he snapped back.

"He wants you to fail," Hermione said. "He wants you to die, as vengeance for your father's failure at the Ministry."

Draco nodded, staring at the black sleeve over his left forearm.

"I joke about Dumbledore being a useless, old man," he said. "But I know it's not true. That time he saved Potter, in the storm, when he was falling onto the Quidditch pitch…"

"_Aresto Momentum_," Hermione said.

"Yes. I've never felt so much power resonate from a wizard before. It was - "

"Electric," she interrupted, remembering the surge of energy she'd felt hit her sternum like a fist and the static that had raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

"I don't know anything about electricity," Draco said. "It felt like he became part of the storm and the lightning and the rain. Like he harnessed all that power in his hands. He didn't even use a wand. Damn it, Granger…" His voice was bleak and hopeless. "I'm dead."

This was it.

This was the moment this entire encounter had been leading to. Hermione leaned forward, thankful there was no barrier between them now.

"Draco," she said. He looked at her, mesmerized by the fierce expression in her eyes. "Professor Dumbledore won't kill you."

"He will if I face him. And I have to face him. You don't understand."

"Dumbledore would _never_ kill you. Not even then. He can help you."

"No one can help me," Draco whispered.

Hermione stood up, walked the three steps between them and dropped to her knees in front of him. He looked down at her with alarm. When she placed her palms on his knees and leaned forward between his legs, he flinched and made a hissing noise, his eyes flaring with fury.

She didn't care. She didn't care about his stupid prejudice. That, his earlier gallantry forgotten, he couldn't stand to be touched by someone like her. She would say what needed to be said.

"You can't believe there's no hope, or you wouldn't have told me all of this," she said, her eyes never wavering from his. "You wouldn't have shown me the Mark. You came to me because you knew I would try to stop you, and you want to be stopped."

"No."

"I can't unsee of what I've seen, Draco."

"Yes, you can."

"I won't!"

Her fingers flexed into the hard muscles of his legs. He moved his left hand over her right, his long fingers lightly encircling her wrist, like a bracelet.

"Hermione."

He whispered her name without a hint of menace as his grip tightened around her wrist, becoming a vise. She realized he held his wand in his right hand, at ready.

In the moment of shock before she could act, Draco said, "_Incarcerous_." With a shower of white sparks, thin cords of silk flew out of his wand and wrapped themselves tightly around her wrists and into a firm knot.

"You snake!" Hermione screamed.

She stumbled backwards, trying to rise, but he stood and grabbed a loose tail of the cord like a leash. With a sharp tug, he pulled her against him and wrapped one strong arm around her waist, trapping her bound hands between them. She struggled, but his hold only tightened, like a constrictor's. She felt him slide her wand out of her back pocket and watched helplessly as it disappeared into the almost invisible sheath sewn into Draco's shirt.

"Don't bother trying to retrieve it," he said. "There are wards."

"What are you doing?" she asked furiously.

"The reason I showed you the Mark," Draco said calmly. "The reason I told you all of this is because I knew I could make you forget it."

He lifted his wand and placed the sharp tip of it against her temple.

Hermione should have been terrified. She should have begged for him to stop. But instead, a virulent anger burned up her spine. _How dare he?_ When she spoke, it was in the stern voice she'd once used to chastise a giant.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, don't you _dare_ Obliviate me!"

Draco looked down at her, his eyebrows raised. The determination in his face had shifted to curiosity. "How do you know my middle name?"

"Oh please, it was either that or Narcissus, since both of your parents are raving egomaniacs."

"My mother does not rave," he said, clearly fighting a smile. "Do you know you are very domineering for a witch who's tied up?"

"Don't you laugh at me," she snapped. "This is very serious. You are talking about my _brains_!"

"Afraid you'll get Trolls on your N.E.W.T.s?" he teased.

"Yes! Among other things. You can't be very good at it."

"Oh, not good at it?" Draco said defensively. "I'll have you know I'm very good at it."

"It's not taught at Hogwarts."

"That doesn't mean it's not taught elsewhere. Not everything is learned in class."

Hermione realized that sometime during the course of this odd conversation, Draco had removed his wand from her head and placed it back in his shirt pocket, next to hers. His active hand had joined his passive hand, and both were stroking the small of her back. It felt wonderful. Peaceful. Like falling into a soft bed after a long, exhausting day. She resisted the urge to arch her back and press against his body.

She did not resist, however, _could_ not resist, twisting her wrists within their bindings, until she could place her palms against Draco's chest. She felt his heartbeat against her fingers, a rhythm that grew faster with each passing second. She looked up at him and was surprised to see an ardent heat in his eyes.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"Because I've made a decision."

"What decision?"

"If I'm going to Obliviate you anyway, with my _great_ talent for Obliviation, I might as well confess everything."

Hermione blinked in amazement. "How could there possibly be more?"

"I'm a Slytherin," Draco said, his voice low. "We're made of secrets."

And then he leaned downand pressed his lips against hers.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**Review are welcomed!:)**


	7. Chapter 6: Made of Secrets

**Chapter Warning: from here until the end of the story, there is potential for sexual content, some of it graphic. (Woo hoo!)**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX<strong>

**MADE OF SECRETS**

Draco's kiss was soft and gentle, and Hermione's eyelids fluttered closed like someone surrendering to sleep and dreams. Anyone who saw them would think the exchange was sweet, almost chaste.

But then they couldn't have felt what she felt.

His hands against her back, pulling her close against his body, his heat. His heartbeat racing under her bound hands, his erection pressing hard against her stomach. She breathed in his breath and his scent, a seductive smell she couldn't name, like spice or smoky incense. He tasted like apples. Dizziness surged, invisible, inside her head, and she gripped the front of Draco's shirt.

She realized, at seventeen, that she'd never been snogged before. Not really. Viktor Krum had been a gentleman, his advances respectful and almost formal. She had pulled away from him with bashful uncertainty.

The last thing she wanted to do was pull away from Draco. She wanted to surrender completely to this glorious, swaying feeling inside her and curl around him like a vine. If her hands weren't bound, she would be touching him, her fingers in his soft hair, pulling him closer.

It was like a dream, this kiss and this whole afternoon. Any moment, she would wake up, alone, with a cold cup of tea and the pattern of a pillow's embroidery imprinted on her cheek.

If she _were_ dreaming, Draco wouldn't really be a Death Eater. She wouldn't have to wonder why he was kissing her or analyze her surprising compulsion to kiss him back. She wouldn't have to realize she'd wanted this to happen for much longer than she cared to confess.

"You taste like honey," Draco murmured against her lips.

"You taste like apples."

In the end, it was just too seductive, to pretend this wasn't real, to dream just a little longer.

Impulsively_,_ Hermione opened her mouth and licked Draco's bottom lip. He gasped and froze, his entire body tensing. She froze, too, afraid he would push her away.

And then, with a desperate groan, his hands fisted in the back of her jumper, and the kiss grew wild.

Draco's mouth slanted over Hermione's, hot and aggressive, his tongue sliding against hers in luscious sweeps. She felt a stab of desire low in her belly and moaned. The sound enflamed him. His hands moved over her back, searching, frantic, until he gripped the hair at the nape of her neck and held her hard against his kisses. A violent tremor ran through her.

Draco pulled back suddenly, leaving her gasping. His fingers stroked the little cove behind her ear, and she made a small sound in her throat and shut her eyes. When she opened them, she saw a knowing glint in his gaze. He had discovered a secret about pleasuring her that even she hadn't suspected. And he was smirking about it.

"Oh, shut it," she said.

"You, shut it, Granger. Unless you want to tell me where else you're so sensitive."

She was silent.

"No?" he teased. "What about here?"

He touched her chin and then, experimentally, let the pad of his thumb slide very slowly down the center of her throat until it rested in the delicate hollow between her collarbones. She felt warm tingles spread through her but refused to react.

"Or perhaps here," he murmured, leaning close to place gentle kisses along the curve of her ear.

She shivered and felt him smile. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth, his tongue teasing her pearl earring with slow, wet, wanton circles. She moaned and gripped his shirt even tighter. Tremors raced over her entire body, chasing each other, layering, until she felt as if her skin were shimmering.

"Yes," he whispered, his breathing rough. "I always dreamed you'd be this responsive."

He'd always dreamed…

_This wasn't a dream_, Hermione thought through a daze of bliss. _He _is_ a Death Eater. He almost killed Katie. Harry was right about everything. What am I thinking?_

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, pushing away from him. He refused to let her go and held her trapped in the circle of his arms. "Why? You hate me."

"Hate you?" he said, his voice mocking. He shook his head and seemed to consider something before speaking.

"I'm doing this, Hermione Jean Granger, because my greatest secret is that I've wanted you since Fourth Year. Since the night of the Yule Ball."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock.

"I don't believe you," she said.

"It's true," he said solemnly. "You wore these pearl earrings and periwinkle blue robes with pleats on the sleeves. Your shoes were silver, and you took them off on the stairs when your feet hurt. Your hair was straight and up in a twist with a white ribbon. You were so beautiful. You _are_ so beautiful."

Hermione had forgotten about the white ribbon. She looked at Draco in amazement.

He continued softly, "I lost my virginity to Pansy that night, in the Astronomy Tower, but when I came, I looked up and I thought of you."

"Looked up at what?" she asked.

He broke their gaze, looking down, and said, "At the sky."

_At the stars_.

That was just the sort of romantic line that a silly girl like Lavender Brown would fall for, after waking up from her swoon over a baby unicorn. But it wasn't a line. He hadn't even said it. But it was the truth. She could tell by Draco's downcast eyes and the faint blush staining his face.

Hermione imagined Pansy Parkinson moaning beneath Draco, and a wave of dark jealousy struck her. She had never wanted to rip out that cow's beautiful hair so much in her life. _She_ wanted to be the one beneath him in that moment. Chilled by winter winds and burning where they were connected. His pale body above her and the stars above him. She wouldn't have let him look away from _her_ when he came.

Hermione felt a soft gush of wet heat in her knickers and pushed aside all reason.

"Unbind my hands," she whispered recklessly.

"Don't tempt me," he said. "You know I can't."

"Draco…"

He kissed her again, to silence her. That was _not_ the right answer. Hermione bit down hard on his lower lip, and Draco jerked back with a hiss.

"Bitch," he growled, his eyes flaring with excitement.

She tasted a flavor like copper on her tongue and saw a gloss of red on his lips. She'd drawn his so-called pure blood. A thrill coursed through her as she licked her lips, and she knew the fire in her eyes was as hot as his.

"Unbind me!"

"No!"

She stood up on her tiptoes, grabbed his shirt and yanked him down to her. Her kiss was as fierce. She sucked on his bottom lip, licking the blood off and tangling her tongue with his. Draco moaned into her mouth, a tortured sound filled with longing, and his arms crushed her against him. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

"Draco, please," she begged. "I need to touch you."

He was still for a second, and then Hermione felt a shudder shake his entire body. He roughly pushed her away and grabbed his wand, his decision made.

"_Finite_!"

With a surge of triumph, Hermione watched the cords twist off her wrists and slither to the floor. She reached for him as he reached for her. They collided with a wild, graceless passion, her arms winding tightly around his shoulders. He bent her back with the force of his kiss, so far that she would fall if his arms released her.

Suddenly, she _was_ falling. One moment, she was lifted up in Draco's arms, and the next, she lay on a carpet on the floor. He leaned over her, breathing hard and straddling her right thigh. His hand cradled her head.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yes."

She threaded her fingers through the silky hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down to her. Their lips met eagerly. They kissed until she felt like her bones were melting. Until all her inhibitions were incinerated in the blaze. She arched her body up, demanding more, her thigh pressing boldly against his erection.

Something inside Draco snapped. Some restraint that had kept his ardor under control. He pulled back, his chest heaving, and gazed down at Hermione with such scorching sensuality she was surprised her clothes didn't instantly burst into flames and fall into powdery ash. An instant later, he took action, moving with a Seeker's speed and confidence. She felt his left leg join his right, sliding between both of hers. His fingers gripped the hook of her knee. He spread her legs wide and lunged forward, with a possessive growl, shoving the ridge of his arousal against the softest, most intimate part of her body.

She should have been appalled by the sound she made. A sort of whimpering sob. But she was mindless with sensation and didn't care. Not when Draco was so beautiful above her, his hair white in the lamplight, a look like adoration in his eyes. Instinctively, she pulled her knees up, opening her femininity to him and creating a cove for his body.

He began to move his hips, grinding his hardness against her. She thrust up to meet him. Even through their clothing, it felt wonderful. Except… his rhythm was too slow. She kept outpacing him.

Frustrated, she finally snapped, "You're doing it wrong."

Draco laughed softly. "I am not, you know-it-all _virgin_."

He punctuated the end of his sentence with a slow, firm, absolutely exquisite thrust that pushed her several centimeters across the carpet. Hermione threw her head back and sobbed again, her eyelids fluttering shut.

Before she even realized her hair had been pulled tight beneath her shoulder blades, Draco scooped her body up in one arm and swept the long, curly locks out from under her. He tumbled back to the ground with her, claiming her lips with a searing kiss. His hand was on her hip, guiding her, as he rubbed his erection against her with deliberate possession. She submitted to him this time, moving at his bidding until her motions perfectly complemented his.

_Oh, God._

Stunning new sensations bloomed inside her. Like a swoon, except that instead of falling, she was rising, every nerve in her body desperately reaching up for something rapturous.

Her world was reduced to just the two of them, their bodies, their rhythm. His maddening scent. The flavor of his tongue. She felt suffused with fever. An intense trembling deep inside her threatened to spill out as ravishing, little waves made her hips twitch uncontrollably. She needed more. She felt Draco's hand touch the side of her face.

Insensible, she turned and bit the base of his thumb. Just inside the curve of his lifeline.

"Hermione," he pleaded, his voice tormented.

It was only one word, her name, not even a question, but she knew what he was asking for. She wanted to give it to him, greedy for all the pleasures he knew about that she did not. It would be so easy. Buttons and zippers undone, a slide of soft, wet fabric. A slide through soft, wet skin…

How would his cock feel deep inside her?

Draco stopped breathing as she reached for the top button of his shirt.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	8. Chapter 7: Remember

**Thank you, all, for the lovely reviews for the previous "sexy" chapter. :)**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER SEVEN<strong>

**REMEMBER**

When Hermione touched the button, a wave of nausea rolled up from her stomach. She smelled salt and heard the sea. Disoriented, she almost closed her eyes, but at the last moment, before darkness, she opened them wide, afraid of being consumed by the black cave again.

Draco held himself above her, waiting, his body pressing her into silky pillows. Through the odor of salt, she could smell apples. She wanted him so much. She ached for him.

But she also felt _it_ crawling slowly across her throat, its body long and dry and heavy. All the heat drained out of her. She stared hard at her fingers, holding very still, terrified that if she moved at all she would _see_ the snake.

_It's not real. It's just a vision. It is not real._

Something tickled the tender skin under the hinge of her jaw, and she didn't know what it was.

"I can't," she whispered.

She tried to push Draco away, but he resisted. A thrill of panic ran through her. He felt as solid as the castle walls. In the next instant, with a rough sound, he relented, rolling off her and onto his back.

Hermione forced herself to stand quickly, on shaky legs, and moved across the room before turning back to look at him. He was still aroused and unashamed of it. He stared with intense concentration at a point on the ceiling as he fought to regain control. She sat down on the edge of the red velvet chair, willing her own racing heart to slow. Her dread was fading.

I understand," Draco said quietly.

He thought her refusal was about her virginity, and for once in her life, she didn't correct someone who was wrong.

Long minutes passed without a word. She didn't know what to say. She should just leave.

Finally, Draco broke the awkward silence, turning his gray eyes to her and speaking with a vulnerability that stunned her.

"After the Yule Ball, I watched you in class, in the library, everywhere. I couldn't help myself. I watched how your mind worked and realized how bloody brilliant you were… how brilliant you are."

"But you were so awful to me," she murmured.

"It made me furious, how much I started to admire you. It went against everything I had been taught about what was right and decent – to have respect for a Muggle-born. I couldn't let you know. I couldn't let anyone know."

Hermione had braced herself, expecting to be called a Mudblood and knowing it would hurt more keenly now than ever. She'd felt a strange sense of imbalance when he hadn't used the word. Then she realized she couldn't remember the last time he'd called her that.

"Every time I provoked you, you fought back," Draco continued. "Every time. Your eyes would flash… You have no idea how much it excites me to fight with you. I've been grateful for the fullness of school robes more than once."

Hermione blushed and bowed her head, letting a cluster of thick curls fall forward to shield her face. She'd felt it, too, that feeling when they fought, a flutter in her stomach, an anxious energy. And then she remembered. Draco had called her a Mudblood months ago, the day she'd seen him at Madam Malkin's being fitted for his dark green school robes. With his mother to witness the slur. That day seemed like such a long time ago.

This morning seemed like such a long time ago.

"I visited you in the hospital wing," Draco said softly.

Hermione glanced at him, astonished. He was sitting up now, his elbow resting casually on one upraised knee.

"After Dolohov cursed me?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Every night, after you were asleep. You looked so pale… My father was already in Azkaban. I hated Potter. I still hate him. And I knew you had fought by his side. But I couldn't stop myself from needing to see you. I had to know you were all right."

This was more than a confession of desire.

Draco Malfoy cared for her.

Hermione's heart gave a painful, little clench of longing for all the lost possibilities. If he'd been taught differently as a child. If he'd told her these things before now… It alarmed her how much she might have cared for him, too.

"And this summer," he said. "In Diagon Alley, when I saw your eye blacked, I wanted to kill the person who'd hit you."

"You said you wanted to send them flowers."

"Who hit you, Granger?" Draco said in a quiet, menacing voice.

"A Weasley punching telescope."

His expression was incredulous for a moment and then he burst into the kind of laughter she had never heard from him before. Free and a little wild. His elegant poise was lost. He looked boyish, and she was enchanted into a smile.

"Then I want to kill that telescope," he said. "I want to tear it apart."

"My hero."

They both grew quiet at Hermione's words, their smiles fading. The unintentional insult, the irony, was not lost upon either of them. Draco was no hero. Nor was he a pawn, because he had made a choice. He was, in fact, a villain.

He had come to her to confess, and some part of him wanted her to stop him. But in the end, he wouldn't let her. He wouldn't have told her any of these secrets unless he planned to make her forget them like a dream lost upon waking.

The room was dim now as the fire flickered low. The lamps glowed. The sky outside the window was deepest blue and winked with the winter night's first stars, the brightest of which was Sirius. Hermione thought of Sirius Black falling through a veiled archway and disappearing forever. Harry hadn't told her about the veil but Neville had. She felt weary with sadness and loss.

"You're really going to do it, aren't you?" she said.

"I have to," he answered. He stood up and gave her a lingering look that felt like goodbye.

"Draco, I need to tell you something."

"I'm not changing my mind," he interrupted softly.

"No, listen to me. Even if I won't remember today, _you_ will. Remember that you don't have to do what Voldemort has ordered you to."

"Granger, stop it."

"Go to Dumbledore," she implored, standing up. "He can protect you. He can protect your mother."

"And my father?" he challenged.

"I don't know," she said desperately. How could she convince him? Was Lucius Malfoy already beyond the help of the Order?

"If anyone has the power to protect him, it's Dumbledore" she said with confidence. "_Aresto Momentum_, do you remember?"

He took three steps toward her, agitated, his hands gripped into fists.

"Hermione, you don't understand. Voldemort would do… unspeakable things to my mother if I defected. He would kill my father. I can't risk that. They're my family! I don't have any choice."

"You do. There is always a choice."

"Don't you _dare_ say there is always hope," he said viciously.

His face grew hard, and he walked toward her with determination. She could have defended herself if she'd her wand, but without it, she knew it was useless to run. Instead, she faced him with calm defiance and returned his unwavering gaze. She saw a flicker of admiration in his eyes. He quickly extinguished it, stopping so close to her she had to lift her chin to keep eye contact.

"Draco," she said. Her voice was strong. "Has anyone seen your Mark, other than me and the other Death Eaters?"

If he was surprised by her question, he didn't show it. His mask of cold control was back.

"My mother," he answered.

"Did it attack her?"

"No," he said, his eyes narrowing.

Hermione shivered at the thought of a horrible possibility. Ironic, that Draco and the other Death Eaters were essentially branded, like slaves. And Muggle-borns were not. Yet.

"The Mark didn't hurt your mother because she's a pureblood," she said. "It binds you to Voldemort, but it also identifies Muggle-borns by their reaction to it. It is part of a larger plan. He will order you to find us and commit crimes against us… if he hasn't already. Atrocious crimes. Enslavement, torture…"

_Rape._

_Murder._

Draco's mask splintered. Hermione saw that he remembered her earlier words. He gazed at an unseen memory now, his eyes haunted.

"Draco," she said firmly. He looked at her. She saw his eyes clear and knew she didn't have much time.

"I don't know what Voldemort made you witness or what he made you do," she said. "But I know this… it is only the beginning. Obliviate me, but when it becomes too much to bear, find the courage to go to Dumbledore. Please."

Draco reached up with his left hand and tenderly slipped it around her neck to cradle the back of her head. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her. He made a fist, instead, gripping her hair, just until it hurt.

For the second time that day, he placed the tip of his wand upon her temple.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

"No," she said, gazing up at him. "Remember what I've said. Remember."

"Stop saying that."

"_Remember."_

"_Silencio."_

Hermione had never been Silenced before. She felt a tingling inside her mouth and then tasted a bittersweet flavor, like dark chocolate, which it faded as numbness slid down her throat. Even knowing it was stupid, she opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out.

_Remember._

_Remember._

She chanted the word over and over in her mind, staring up at Draco with a steadfastintensity, willing him to hear her silent command. She would brand the word into his memory. She would never let him forget it.

_Remember._

The tears brimming in her eyes surprised her. Normally, she would have felt a tight heat in her throat before she cried, but the numbness of the Silencing spell must have suppressed it. Her cheek was hot, but the tear rolling down it was strangely cold.

Draco's eyes widened, looking more silver than ever before.

"Hermione…"

He wiped his thumb across her wet cheek, and she saw, against his skin, that her tear was a luminous white.

She didn't know how she'd worked the spell. The chanting of the word, the power of her wish. Silenced, she couldn't tell Draco about bottled memories and Pensieves. The tear was gone, and she didn't know how to recreate it. Soon, Draco would be gone, too. Lost in darkness and unable to find his way.

Fighting nausea, Hermione took his face in both her hands and pulled his mouth down to hers. She spoke her silent entreaty against his lips until the word became a farewell kiss.

The wand against her head shook as Draco's hand trembled. She pulled back, wrapped her hand around his to steady it and gazed at him, unblinking, as he spoke the incantation.

"_Obliviate_."

A flash of blue-green light illuminated Hermione's face.

"_Somnus,"_ Draco whispered. The light turned purple before disappearing.

She fell asleep on her feet, her body swaying. He caught her against him, one large hand on her spine, before gently laying her back into the red velvet chair.

* * *

><p>Hermione, in her Scourgified boots and Harry's oversized clothes, watched the scene, enthralled by Draco's tenderness.<p>

The moment he'd cast the memory charm, she'd felt a little snap in her chest, like a thread being broken, between her and her younger self. She felt no connection to the rosy-cheeked girl anymore. What happened now was beyond her memory or experience.

She watched Draco's secret made manifest as he tended to the girl's comfort. He placed her sock-clad feet on the ottoman, tucked a pillow behind her head and gestured to the fireplace with his wand. Its flames blazed with renewed energy. He retrieved her wand from his pocket and placed it beside her. He retrieved her book from the floor, and after gazing at the black silhouette of a bird on its cover for a long moment, he placed it in her lap. His touch lingered on her knee.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

The sky outside the tower window was black now and glittered with thousands of stars.

Draco leaned down and kissed the sleeping girl, but she didn't wake from the wizard's spell. She wouldn't wake from his spell for almost six years.

Hermione felt herself floating up from the floor. The last thing she saw as she rose out of the Divination classroom was Draco leaning down once more to whisper something in the girl's ear. And then, they were gone. She was spinning up through freezing blackness, her stomach slowly flipping inside her. With a dizzy lurch, she landed on a stone floor, surrounded by light of the Chamber of Memories.

She was not alone.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

_**Somnus **_**was**** spell I created for this story. I n Latin, **_**Somnus**_** is a variation of the word **_**sleep**_**. I envision this spell as a gentler method than the Stunning Spell to render someone unconscious.**

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	9. Chapter 8: Revealing All

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**REVEALING ALL**

Carina watched as Miss Granger appeared out the Pensieve. The witch blinked, adjusting to the light in the chamber, and then snapped her eyes directly to Carina. Master Draco had that same habit of accessing a room quickly, mapping the locations of others, finding threats, wand in hand. A skill internalized during the war.

"Hello," Miss Granger said, slipping her wand into her trouser pocket.

"Greetings, Miss," Carina said. She walked forward, a glass of pumpkin juice balanced on the silver tray she held. Over the years, she had found it helped alleviate the residual dizziness some experienced after leaving the Pensieve.

"Thank you. Are you Kiki?"

"Yes."

The witch gazed down at Carina shrewdly for a moment and said, "No, you're not."

A younger, more timid elf might have grown flustered to contradict a witch or wizard, but Carina was almost eighty years old, and she knew many things, including who she was.

"I _am_ Kiki, miss."

"No, I mean, Kiki's not your name."

Carina's large blue eyes grew even larger. Hermione Granger was a powerful witch. Perhaps she was a Legilimens, like Master Draco.

"Are you reading my mind?" she asked.

"No, just your voice and your eyes. What's your real name?"

"Carina Keystone."

"Carina. After the constellation. I'm Hermione Granger."

"Yes, Miss," Carina said, bowing.

"Could you please take me to Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes, Miss, follow me."

Carina guided Miss Granger through the maze-like series of staircases and magically hidden doors that led back to the library. She knew Master Draco waited there. When he had left Miss Granger in the Chamber of Memories, he had finished dressing. He'd put on his socks and shoes. He'd eaten his breakfast and tried to read the paper. Eventually, he'd retired to the library and his desk, to wait, drinking Firewhiskey even though it was only eight o'clock in the morning. She hoped he wasn't drunk.

Carina wondered what was in the memory that Master Draco had taken from Miss Granger's head, the memory he watched once a month and all day Wednesday. She could have peeked, but it wasn't her place. The witch didn't look mad anymore though. She didn't look any way, actually, her expression as smooth as an egg. Carina wondered what she could say to make Miss Granger love Master Draco as much as he loved her.

She was about to tell Miss that Master hadn't kicked his elves in years when the girl spoke first.

"I've seen you before, Carina," she said. "With Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, in a corridor at Hogwarts, the night that they went to the Headmaster."

Carina remembered that day. They had journeyed north through ice and snow in a bright red train. The compartments had been filled with revelers traveling to Hogsmeade for New Year's Eve. Master Draco had not wanted to risk Apparition, uncertain of the extent to which You-Know-Who could track him. They had parted from the laughing crowd at the station and walked together, in silence, up the white hill that led to the castle.

Mistress Narcissa disappeared in the snow, a spirit, her white hair and white robes swirling in the wind. There were frozen tears on her cheeks. Master Draco, who had grown taller than his mother the year before, guided her over the treacherous ground, his arm holding her close to his side.

Anyone who witnessed his care of her would never know they had fought for days before the moment she had relented to come to Hogwarts with him. There had been threats and pleas, all in private rooms of the manor. Dark, sad words had been spoken like _betrayal_ and _punishment_ and _death_. It was one thing not to take the Dark Mark in the first place. It was quite another for a Death Eater to betray the Dark Lord. In the end, the mistress had chosen her son over her husband, a decision that was right but would devastate her for years.

Carina followed them, clutching a black bag that held more than it appeared to and wrapped in a blanket Master Draco had dropped onto the floor as they stood to leave the train. Her feet ached with the cold. A stern-looking witch in a pointed hat met them at the entrance of the castle and, without a word, led them to the Headmaster's office.

He was an old man with a long, white beard and kind, blue eyes. He had seen to everyone's comfort, even transfiguring a globe into a soft, elf-sized chair by the fire for Carina and handing her a cup of steaming apple cider. She had tried to stay awake as Master Draco and the Headmaster began to speak in earnest but couldn't, her feet so warm after being so cold, the fire swaying hypnotically.

When she woke up, it was the New Year. She and Mistress Narcissa were in the cottage by the sea. As she unpacked the black bag, she found a note in Master Draco's slanted handwriting.

_Kiki, take care of her._

Although they had received occasional news of his safety from the Order over the next eighteen months, they did not see him again until the day it was all over, when he had appeared on the shore at sunrise with the body of Master Lucius.

"It was brave of him to defect," Carina told Miss Granger. "He sacrificed his father, and his father meant so much to him."

The witch didn't respond.

"He loves his family," Carina said. "Right after You-Know-Who was killed, he brought his father's body to his mother."

"I know. I saw him portkey away," Miss Granger said in an emotionless voice. They stopped before a stone wall that blocked the corridor.

Resisting the urge to sigh, Carina snapped her thick fingers, and the wall began to smoke and shift and flicker until it became sinuous black fire. She had done all she could.

She held out her hand to the witch.

* * *

><p>Draco heard a sharp hiss and looked up to see two figures emerge from the black flames in the fireplace. He barely noticed Kiki leave the room as Hermione walked toward him. His heart was racing, and it took all of his considerable skill to hide his agitation. He sat in a throne-like chair of leather and carved wood, behind the protection of his massive desk and a half-empty glass of Firewhiskey. His wand was within reach.<p>

The two chairs facing the desk were cleverly crafted. They were slightly too low without appearing to be and luxurious enough to hide other intentional and minute imperfections that gave visitors a sense of unease. The end result was intimidation. Good for negotiation. Or harsh lectures about losing the House Cup.

Granger gave the chairs a cursory glance, then stood between them, placing her hands on the desk.

Her face was inscrutable.

He had expected her to walk through the fire angry, perhaps even shooting off curses. Or fearful and haunted by the visions of the cave by the sea. But she was quiet, almost placid, and utterly unreadable. It was unsettling. Whether or not he knew the reasons behind her emotions, he had always been able to _see_ them clearly on her face or in the turn of her shoulder or the twitch of her hand. Granger had never been able to hide what she was feeling.

In this way, they were complete opposites and the epitome of their Houses. She was Gryffindor, the sword, bravery and sacrifice, revealing all. He was Slytherin, the locket, cunning and calculation, concealing all.

Until now.

He felt a strong desire to reach into her mind, to gauge her temper, but immediately crushed the compulsion. It would be an unforgiveable violation. He would never do it again.

"What made you change your mind?" she finally asked. "Why did you defect?"

Draco's every instinct told him to lie, to hide and protect himself behind his customary armor and shields. To be vulnerable was to be weak. But to remain strong now might save his pride but ruin everything else. She deserved to know the truth.

"After I left you that day," he said, "I couldn't forget what you'd said to me. I had always assumed that I had no choice, that I had to do as he ordered to save my family. My father's expectations… I had lived for them all my life. And when I saw him broken in Azkaban, begging me to take the Mark, I needed to _restore_ him somehow, to what he should be. I didn't understand. I didn't realize what I was becoming a part of. By December, I knew I was going to fail and die."

Draco realized, to his horror, that his hands were shaking, and he wrapped his fingers around his glass of whiskey to hide it.

"But you were so certain that Dumbledore would help me and my mother," he said. "Gyffindor naiveté, I thought. But what if you were right? What if I could change? I knew if I was going to act, I had to act fast. I could hide my thoughts, but not for long, and not in my sleep…"

He paused, took a swig of his drink and paused again before continuing.

"I dreamed of you, of kissing you. And then the dreams would shift into nightmares of the things I had seen and done. It was too much emotion for him not to notice soon. I had days, at most."

Draco noticed Hermione's eyes narrow slightly. He had said something that intrigued her.

"Do you still have the nightmares?" she asked.

"Sometimes."

"What do you see in your nightmares?"

_No_, he thought.

She was really asking him what had he seen and done in service of Voldemort. He had never spoken of these things to another soul. Once, after a week without sleep and half-delirious, he had tried to tell his mother. But she'd shaken her head frantically and placed her cool fingers against his lips. She had needed his strength, then, not his weakness, and that's what he had given her ever since.

"Did you torture people?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," Draco said, forcing the word out of his mouth by will alone. "I had to use the _Cruciatus_ in interrogation. And when it would have been too suspicious not to use it in… recreation."

He saw Bellatrix, smiling, her glossy hair bright with red light, a smear of blood on her cheek.

"Did you rape anyone?" Hermione asked.

"No," he said quickly.

_Leave it at that. Lie to her. You can hide it. She would never know._

"No," he said again, but he heard the anguish in his voice.

It had been easy to tell which prisoners had been raped. They were constantly fearful, jumping at any noise, their backs against the wall. They never held his gaze but looked away, as if ashamed, and tried to become invisible, their legs pressed tightly together.

"I didn't rape anyone. But I knew it was happening, and I couldn't… I didn't do anything to stop it."

It was too much to contain. He couldn't tell her these things and keep his composure. He closed his eyes, ashamed to meet her gaze, and rested his head in one hand.

"Did you commit murder?" she asked, merciless.

"No."

"But you saw murder and didn't do anything to stop it."

"Yes, over and over."

Too many times to count. At first, he had tried to remember each face, thinking that might somehow make it better. A secret memorial. But there had been so many. Their identities blended together. And, in that way, they were forgotten.

Except for one, a nameless Muggle. Draco still saw her vividly in his occasional nightmares. Not her face, but the bruised and graceful length of her white neck disappearing into Nagini's mouth as the great snake devoured her.

Shaking uncontrollably now, agitated and angry and defiant, Draco downed the rest of his whiskey and glared at Hermione. If she had not hated him before, which he found hard to believe, she would hate him now. How could she feel otherwise?

"You haven't forgiven yourself," she said.

"I don't deserve it," he said bitterly. "There is no forgiveness for that kind of cowardice."

"I don't agree," Hermione said without hesitation, and Draco's eyes widened in shock. "You did not commit evil acts for pleasure. You left Voldemort's service when others stayed. It was brave of you to defect. We might never have defeated him without you."

"Dumbledore still died."

"He was always going to die. You know that. But you didn't kill him. The minute you heard about the Horcruxes, you knew where to find Ravenclaw's diadem. McGonagall wouldn't have known that Dobby could rescue Harry and Ron from _this_ house without information from you."

"I should have been here, too."

"You would have set off the wards. And without Dobby, there would have been no help from Ollivander or Griphook. You have done bad things, and you have let bad things happen. But, Draco, you have done good things, too."

He watched Hermione reach across the desk and take his empty glass out of his hand. As she set it aside, her sleeve brushed his wand, which rolled away from him until she stopped it with a light touch of her fingers. Just out of his reach. Instead of retrieving it, he looked at her, trying to read the thoughts in her eyes.

"At the end of the memory, what did you whisper in my ear?" she asked softly.

He only paused for a moment before saying, "I said goodbye."

"No, you didn't," she said. "Tell me the truth."

This was it. The moment of choice.

He stared into her dark eyes and imagined the glint of danger in them, of weapons. Knives and arrows and a sword with rubies in the hilt, all ready to pierce him and make him bleed. She was the only one who could destroy him, and she could do it with a word. It went against his deepest nature to lay his soul down defenseless before her.

He did it anyway.

"I said I loved you," Draco confessed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**Reviews are welcomed!**


	10. Chapter 9: Last Chance

**CHAPTER NINE**

**LAST CHANCE**

Hermione didn't react to his revelation. Her eyes glittered, the weapons Draco imagined in them still sharp.

"And how do you feel about me now?" she asked.

_It's not too late. Lie to her. Tell her it was just a crush. Protect yourself._

He felt as if he swayed on the edge of a great fall, his heart thundering at the perilous height, the certain result.

"Draco, how do you feel about me now?" she asked again.

Beyond doubt, he knew this was his last chance, and he took it. He let himself fall forward, into air and possibility and the greatest risk of his life.

"I still love you," he said. He looked her in the eye despite his fear. "I've loved you for years. I had hoped, after I defected, that we might… But it was clear that you hated me despite our attraction to each other that day. You seemed like you couldn't even stand the sight of me."

"I couldn't."

_Couldn't_. Not _can't_.

Possessed by this small hope, he took another great risk.

"How do you feel about _me_ now?" he asked.

For a moment, Hermione studied him. He saw expression in her face again. Curiosity. A question. And something else… like wonder and longing combined. She reached her hand out to him across the table, and his breath caught. He leaned forward and slowly reached his hand out toward hers.

"No," she said. "Your left hand."

Draco recoiled, his spine slamming back against the leather upholstery of his chair. Without his wand or a glass of whiskey to hold, he pressed his fingers hard against the edge of the desk.

He had diligently kept his Dark Mark hidden from the world since the day it had tortured Hermione. He always wore long sleeves and dressed alone at The Quidditch Club and politely declined invitations to Zabini's house on the shore. He never took his shirt fully off when having sex, and only had sex with purebloods, just in case. He didn't want to risk hurting someone.

Especially not her.

Over the years, the skull and snake had faded, the deep black slowly bleaching to chalk white and the enflamed red corona returning to healthy flesh. He didn't know if they still contained their vicious poisons.

He remembered the day Hermione had uncovered his Mark. She had fallen back onto the floor as if he had struck her and screamed in absolute terror. For a moment, he had been frozen by panic and helplessness. He hated himself for hurting her. Sometimes, in his nightmares, the Muggle woman with the long, bruised neck became Hermione, her head thrown back with shrieks.

"Draco, give me your hand," she said.

"No, you know what could happen."

"Is the Mark still black?"

"No."

"Have you felt it since he died?"

"No."

"Then give me your damned hand," Hermione ordered.

"My _damned_ hand," he murmured. "Appropriate."

His humor was just another defense mechanism, and he could tell she knew it. As with all his other defenses, she shattered it ruthlessly. She continued to hold her hand out to him, her face like a queen's, a power expecting to be obeyed.

As Draco gave her his left hand, palm up, his prayer consisted of one, silent word repeated over and over.

_Please_…

The moment Hermione touched him, he felt a flare of longing and desire burn through his body. His cock was instantly hard. He wanted to pull her close to him and push her away, to safety, all at once. It was strange, this combination of lust and fear. His breath quickened with both as he watched her delicate fingers roam lightly over his skin. She traced the lines crossing his palm, lingering on his heart line. She slipped her fingers inside the cuff of his shirt and removed his emerald cuff link. Draco held his breath, tense and ready to act within a second if she so much as blinked.

She pulled his white sleeve up his arm to reveal the Dark Mark.

Nothing happened.

For a long moment, neither of them reacted. Then he exhaled hard, and she let out a low, nervous laugh. She ran her fingers up the ravaged skin of his forearm without harm. He shuddered at her touch. A wild, expanding joy filled his lungs. The Mark was powerless.

He was free.

Unable _not_ to touch her, he caressed her arm. Their hands slid back toward each other until they pressed palm to palm, fingers intertwining. He sat on the very edge of his chair now, leaning toward her across the desk. At the same instant, they looked at each other.

Hermione's smile was breathtaking. Her dark eyes seemed lit from within by an emotion that he could read as clearly as ink on parchment. Happiness.

She had never looked more beautiful to him.

_I am yours_, he vowed silently. _And I won't rest until you know that you are mine._

"There's nothing in the way now," she said.

"In the way of what?"

"Of this," she whispered.

Almost reverently, she bowed down over his hand and kissed it.

Draco gazed at Hermione as if bewitched to never look away. Her lips were hot against his skin. He felt astonishment and yearning and a love so strong it battered against the inside of his body for release with each heartbeat. A lock of her hair fell forward, brushing his wrist. He reached out with his other hand and tucked the soft curl over her shoulder.

Then, Slytherin to the core, he pressed his advantage by gently stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.

Hermione gasped against his knuckles. She pulled away sharply and glared at him, her eyes burning with desire. They were both half-crouched over opposite sides of the desk. The energy between them was the energy of the predator, instinct and hunger and power waiting to strike. Draco's body was tight, every muscle hard. A desperate ache twisted low in his gut.

He didn't know who moved first. But suddenly, they were both sweeping parchment aside and climbing onto the desk to get to each other. They came together, on their knees, clasped in each other's arms. Their lips met in a savage kiss that made Draco so dizzy he almost lost his balance.

Dimly, he heard his wand clatter onto the floor. The crash of breaking glass.

Somehow, seconds later, he was flat on his back with Hermione straddling him. He grabbed her hips and pressed his erection up against her, drawing a whimpering sob from her lips. That provocative sound had tortured his imagination for almost six years. He wanted to hear it again and again. They rubbed against each other, in perfect rhythm, growing breathless, until one of her boots squeaked against the polished wood of the desk. She stopped moving and smiled.

"Aren't you going to tell me to respect the antiques?" she murmured.

"Smash them all to hell. Burn down the house. I don't care, Granger. Just _fuck_ me."

She bit her lip and rolled her hips slowly, but her voice was teasing when she finally replied.

"Of course, Malfoy. Since you asked so nicely."

He didn't even have time to hold his breath before she pulled her jumper over her head and tossed it to the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**This was a short chapter. Last tease... the chapter you've probably been waiting for IS next.**

**Reviews are welcomed! :)**


	11. Chapter 10: A Power Beyond Magic

**CHAPTER TEN**

**A POWER BEYOND MAGIC**

It was madness from that moment.

Her breasts were bare. Small and perfect and tipped with pink nipples. Before he could reach for her, her hands were on his shirt, tearing the plackets apart, buttons flying. She brushed the linen aside and stroked his smooth chest, sending jolts of hot pleasure through his body.

"Take off your shirt," she said.

Out of habit, he shook his head. The Mark…

"It doesn't matter. Take it off!"

All his trepidation was swept away by her words and the imperious tone of her voice. He struggled to loosen his right cuff link and shrug out of his shirt.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered. Her fingers traced the vaulting of his ribs, making his stomach quiver. "Strong, inside and out."

Her praise filled him with a fragile pride. That she could see him that way, when he was so flawed… Could he ever be the man she deserved? Overcome with feeling, he cast his shirt away and took control, pulling Hermione down into his arms.

They both gasped at the contact of skin against skin and held themselves still in the embrace for one suspended moment, absorbing warmth and pleasure. She was so soft, so heavenly. Their heads turned at the same time, a movement as natural as the arc of the sun across the sky. Their lips met in a sweet, consuming kiss.

It was the most perfect kiss Draco had ever experienced, sending his head somewhere up among the stars, but it wasn't enough. Nothing would be enough, not until he was inside her and she was truly _his_ after all these years.

He moved quickly, lifting her with him, until she sat on the very edge of the desk, facing his chair, and he stood between her legs. He wanted to touch her everywhere, explore all the creamy skin she had just revealed, her breasts and arms and the curve of her back. But there wasn't time. His need was too obsessive, his entire body flushed with fever. His hands reached down to unfasten her trousers. The button was cool against his hot fingers.

She reached for his trousers, too, fumbling until her fingers slipped inside and wrapped around his hard cock.

"Fuck," Draco cursed, thrusting into her hand.

Her mere touch almost sent him tumbling over the edge. He grabbed her wrist.

"Stop," he begged. "God, you drive me mad."

He dropped his forehead against Hermione's, trying to master his rioting body. He was sweating, his breath coming in pants. Her mouth was so close to his that they shared a sultry exchange of breath that made him think of kisses.

"You tasted like apples," she said. He remembered with a smile.

"You tasted like honey," he replied.

Their lips came together then in a kiss that was, impossibly, even more perfect than the last.

"I'm going to touch you now," she warned him. "If you want to watch."

In a sensual daze, Draco looked down as Hermione pulled him out of his clothing. He watched her fingers move over his length, pleasuring him. Her grip tightened into a tormenting sheath, and Draco's whole body shook as he pressed into it, groaning. After just a few strokes, he realized if he didn't do something soon, he was going to come shamefully fast and into her pretty hand.

He reached into the opening of her trousers, expecting to graze cotton or satin, but there was just her, spread open for him. His fingers slid over damp curls.

"Fuck," Draco said again, through gritted teeth. "Hermione."

He delved inside her sleek, wet heat. God, she was so ready. He found the little pearl of nerves and caressed it with delicate, circling strokes. Hermione whimpered, and her hand fell away from him. The luscious scent of her arousal thickened the air between them. Draco resisted the potent desire to fall to his knees and taste her until she came on his tongue. That would have to wait. His cock was aching for her. He pulled his fingers out and licked one clean, loving her tangy flavor.

"Take off your trousers," he demanded.

Hermione fell back onto her elbows, her eyes shining with challenge and delight. She placed one booted foot in the middle of his chest.

"_You_ take off my trousers," she said.

His cock twitched at her impertinence. Fighting with Granger had always excited him. Despite that, he realized she was slowing down again, giving him time to gain control, and he marveled at how sweet she was.

He slipped off her boots, trousers and a pair of ridiculous hand-knitted socks, revealing gorgeous legs and toenails painted robin's egg blue.

"You are so weird," he said, squeezing one of her little toes. He quickly took off the rest of his clothes, wanting to be naked with her.

"If I'm so weird and you like me, what does that make you?" she countered.

"Granger, I don't just like you. I love you."

Draco couldn't hold the words in. He didn't want to. He gave them freely, with joy and no expectation of her returning his feelings. After today's revelations, it was the just beginning for her. But she would love him back soon. He refused to be in this deep alone and planned to dedicate himself entirely to winning her heart.

"No snappy comeback?" he asked as he stood between her legs and aligned their bodies.

She shook her head, her expression slightly mystified. "I don't know how to respond to that."

Draco smiled, a brilliant feeling of triumph swelling inside his chest.

"Perfect," he said as he grabbed Hermione's hips and slammed his cock deep inside her.

He shut his eyes and cried out, beyond words, as intense rapture flooded his senses. She was so incredibly _tight_. So hot. He held himself deep inside her, his legs and stomach trembling as he struggled to maintain control. When he felt her legs lift to cradle his hips, he forced his eyes open. She was glorious beneath him. All lovely, graceful curves. She had fallen back onto the desk, her dark hair spread around her. Suddenly, she made a choking, desperate sound, and Draco found himself staring anxiously into her tear-brightened eyes.

"Hermione, what is it?"

"What are you waiting for?" she asked. "Draco… I can't bear it!"

"Sweetheart, I won't last if -"

"I don't care. Just fuck me _now_!"

Something dark and primitive snarled inside of Draco. He pressed Hermione's thighs further apart and stared down at their joined bodies. He pulled his hips back, slowly revealing the thick length of his cock, now glossy with her juices. Then, surrendering to his lust, he did exactly as he wanted and began pumping relentlessly into her cunt. Each stoke was brutish and hard, but she liked it. Her enticing little sounds grew wild. His own breaths came in frantic pants. The coil of heat and pleasure inside him tightened with each thrust, until he felt like his blood was boiling. Like his soul trying to rise out of his body through his skin. Needing to touch more of her, he captured one of her bouncing breasts in his hand and brushed the pink nipple with his thumb.

Hermione gasped and came with shocking swiftness.

Draco groaned, closing his eyes tight as her muscles clenched around him. His whole body trembled on the edge, in exquisite agony. He pounded into her with all his strength, almost there. In that instant, he felt Hermione's hands bracket his face. He opened his eyes and stared down into her dark, fervent gaze.

"Look at me when you come," she said. "Don't shut your eyes."

Captured by her completely, by her eyes and her hands and her cunt, Draco was helpless against the connection she demanded. The beast was inside him, dominant, rutting and howling for release. But so was the man again and all his tender feelings for the beauty beneath him and his desire to be worthy of her.

Draco thrust into Hermione one more time and shattered as he never had before. His gaze never left hers as the devastating fire of his climax burned through him. He saw the wonder in her dark eyes as she watched him, and he knew she could see all his love for her. They were suspended in bliss, together.

This was a power beyond sex, a power beyond magic. It was the moment Draco's life had been leading him to since that winter night long ago when he'd been bewitched by a girl in periwinkle blue.

When he tumbled down from his orgasm, breathless and weak, he pulled Hermione into his arms and fell back into his chair, holding her. All the tension in him, all his fears and doubts, melted into soft perfection as they kissed, their eyes finally fluttering shut.

"You're mine, Hermione," he whispered against her lips. "Mine."

Several minutes and several kisses later, still cuddled in Draco's lap, Hermione whispered, "Can you go again?"

Surprised, he laughed softly. But why should he find that odd? From the very first and more than any other, this witch had challenged him. She had pushed him to the edge of his capabilities and beyond in mind and heart and soul. And now, apparently, in body as well.

She placed coaxing kisses along his jaw and then murmured in his ear all the naughty things she wanted to do to him. A chain of sexy, little secrets that had him painfully hard again within seconds.

"I think I'd prefer a bed for that one," he said in a ragged voice. He placed his hands firmly on her waist. "Hold on."

"Concentrate," she said sharply. "Don't splinch us."

"I would _never_ splinch us."

Despite that fact, Draco took a moment to focus with the proper determination before Apparating them onto his large bed.

He immediately rolled Hermione under him, claiming dominance by capturing her hands above her head and kissing her senseless. When he lifted his head and released her wrists, her eyes were glassy.

"To answer your question, Granger," he said in a low voice as he spread her legs apart. "Yes, I can go again."

And again and again.

Draco had always been good in bed, but he had never had stamina like this. He had never been with a woman so insatiable. He learned that after wanting it hard and fast, Hermione wanted it torturously slow. And then a bit rough and playful. And then she wanted to sleep and be left alone. But when he woke her up anyway, she'd made love to him with a dreamy, romantic tenderness that had reduced him to her slave. So much so that he'd _almost_ told her so.

They marked the passing of the day by the changing light on each other's skin. She touched his Mark so often that he didn't even notice it anymore by the time he found the lunch left discreetly outside their bedroom door. Draco found all her scars, too. Nothing dramatic like his, just old cuts from the war. The kind every soldier had.

When he thought she had fallen asleep in his arms again and when he least expected a serious conversation, Hermione said, "I never hated you, Draco."

"That's good to hear," he said in a neutral tone, stroking her back.

"I'm sure you thought I did after you defected," she said, looking up at him. "But I didn't. It was the Mark. Even though you'd Obliviated me, a part of the way it made me feel remained. So did my attraction to you. Like your dreams and nightmares, they twined together and became tangled. Every time I saw you, I was drawn to you and repelled at the same time. It frightened me, so I kept my distance. Built a wall between us."

Draco remembered her coldness, the wariness and warning in her expression. But then there had been brief moments…

"Sometimes I thought I saw something different in your eyes," he said.

"When?"

"When I cast my first Patronus. You smiled and hurried toward me – but then you turned away.**"**

He'd been thinking of kissing her in the Divination classroom when he'd successfully cast the charm for the first time. One minute Weasley had been joking about glowing ferrets, and the next, brilliant white light had blasted out of Draco's wand to form a great, misty-white eagle that flew around the clearing. He had watched it, amazed, his blood surging with power and hope, and then he had looked at Hermione's illuminated face. At her smile. Christ, if she had come within arm's reach of him at that moment, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from kissing her in front of everyone.

But she hadn't. Her face had changed, and his Patronus had faltered. As the small crowd rushed forward to congratulate him, she'd disappeared into the dark forest.

"I wanted to throw my arms around you," Hermione said. "I was so proud. You had already proven your loyalty again and again. But a Patronus was irrefutable evidence that you were on our side. And then this…nausea and dread swept over me. I thought, sometimes, I was going insane."

Hermione sat up, an ivory sheet draped around her body. He wondered if it was a defensive reflex and realized there was more he needed to say. He sat up too, giving her space, only touching the edge of the sheet that touched her.

"I showed you the Mark that day because I needed help," Draco admitted. "I was in too deep, and I was desperate and wanted someone to stop me. I knew you would try. But when I had the choice before me, I was too afraid."

Countless times, he had regretted not having courage that day. Only eight days later, he had walked into Dumbledore's office like a surrendering general, his posture rigid, seeking sanctuary for his mother and himself. But those eight days had made all the difference in the world for him and Hermione. The possibilities of what could have been had haunted him for years.

"I'm sorry that I Obliviated you," he said. "And I'm sorry that I hurt you. I didn't know how the Mark would affect you."

"How could you know?" She shrugged and the sheet fell off her shoulder. "I mean, nothing is ever ordinary with Voldemort. I've seen Obliviated memories returned in controlled circumstances. My parents' memories were restored. It was painstaking, but not painful. Nothing like what hit me in the market or in the hospital."

"Hermione…" He couldn't help it. He reached out his hand, and she took it.

"Draco, I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I'm just trying to understand why I fell into that state when the memories were triggered. And I keep returning to something Harry said Professor Snape once told him. That Voldemort used Legilimency to plant visions in people's minds that were intended to torture them and drive them mad. That is was sport to him."

"Yes," Draco said, his voice tightly controlled. He had seen this happen, more than once, heard the screams begging for help become the screams begging for death. Death not granted for hours or even days.

Hermione saw the pain in his eyes and moved quickly. She straddled his lap, still half-wrapped in the sheet. His arms instantly circled her, and his cheek rested against the curve of her throat. Surrounded by her scent and her softness, everything in him calmed.

After a long pause, he leaned back slightly and said, "Tell me your theory."

He could practically feel the swotty, little student in her vibrating with excitement, and he smiled.

"Well, in the Muggle world, some psychologists… mind healers believe that bad memories inflicted by abuse can be repressed and forgotten in order for the victim to cope with the trauma. But the memories are never completely gone. And you are never completely healed until you go through the pain of facing them and dealing with the truth. Do you see?"

"Obliviation repressed your memories of the cave by the sea," he said. "But they weren't completely gone."

"Right, and when the memories started to return, they tried to torture me and drive me mad again."

"But he's gone. The Mark has no power anymore."

"Even you didn't know that until this afternoon. It had the power I gave it. I think I was really battling with my own mind. To overcome fear. To remember. When you took me to the Chamber of Memories, I was almost overwhelmed with nausea. I practically collapsed into the Pensieve."

"Hermione," he said, alarmed. He pulled her hard against him.

"I'm all right," she said, stroking his back. "I'm all right. Since I came _out_ of the Pensieve, I've felt fine. I didn't just _see_ everything in your memory. I really remembered it myself, and it wasn't as awful as some of the possibilities I'd imagined. I've faced the truth, and now, I'm free."

"The curse is broken?" he said, kissing her neck.

"In a manner of speaking," she said breathlessly. "Isn't the mind fascinating?"

"Granger, only you would fall into a coma, and take it as an opportunity for research."

She said something then about subconscious and memory and perception, but he was more fascinated by the intoxicating scent of her skin. He nuzzled her jaw and breathed in deep. Her pulse beat wildly beneath his lips, and she forgot what she was saying. Draco smirked. He loved shutting her up almost as much as he loved listening to her.

Effortlessly, he lifted her and tossed her onto her back. She was a beautiful, indignant, tousled heap, twisted up in a sheet. One leg was revealed from its curving hip to its silly blue toenails. And one breast, with a nipple as delicate pink as the petals of Peruvian Aurora flower. In seconds, he was over her, kissing her, his fingers pressing deep inside her silky heat.

This would be another happy memory. He was building a private collection of them. The next time he conjured his Patronus, he would have choices. So many choices, all Hermione.

An hour later, at sunset, she murmured something unintelligible.

"What?" Draco asked, still dazed from his climax.

"I need to owl my friends," she said, so sleepy he could barely understand her. "Let them know I'm safe. That I didn't kill you."

"At this rate, you might kill me yet."

"Oh, shut it," she muttered, clumsily swatting at him.

"I'll owl them," he said. "Want me to invite them around for dinner tomorrow night?"

"Mmmnnn. Invite some of your friends, too."

"One step at a time, sweetheart. I'll go talk to Kiki about it."

"Her name is Carina."

"What?"

"Keystone. Kiki's not Kiki. Like T. S. Eliot's cats. Tell her I'm sorry about the mud. I wonder what Dobby's real name was…"

In the very next breath, she was asleep. Draco realized with profound pleasure that, for the rest of his life, he would have the privilege of listening to Hermione Granger mumble nonsense before she fell asleep. He brushed her tumbled hair over her shoulder and stroked a path down her arm and hip. With a little sigh, she shifted, her legs falling open to reveal a tempting strip of pink as she turned.

Draco groaned. How would a man resist? He opened her fully to him and nestled his face between her thighs to taste her again.

Ten minutes later, certain he'd given Hermione an interesting dream, Draco donned a robe and walked down to the library.

All evidence of their earlier passion had been whisked away. Discarded clothes gone, glass swept up, scattered papers neatly stacked. He was sure he would find his emerald cuff links in their box in his closet in the morning. His and Hermione's wands lay side by side on the desk. In a pile beside them were several urgent messages owled today. Without reading them, Draco took out a white quill and a length of parchment to scratch out a quick note.

"Kiki," he said.

With a soft pop, the elf appeared beside him.

"I see I've received several owls today," he said.

"Yes, Master, and one Red Howler from a Ginny Potter, but I took care of it."

"Thank you for that," Draco said as he finished his letter and handed it to her. "Give this to Vellian, to deliver to Harry Potter immediately."

"Harry Potter? The cross-eyed boy?"

Draco glanced down fondly at the loyal, old elf. She was so skilled he could barely see the humor gleaming deep in her blue eyes.

"I think we both know by now that Potter's not cross-eyed," he said. "But he does still walk like a girl."

"Of course, Master."

"We are expecting company for dinner tomorrow night. Several of Miss Granger's friends. There will need to be a birthday cake. I'll owl Mrs. Potter a Howler to ask what flavor…"

Draco's sentence trailed away as he was suddenly struck by a vision of Hermione licking icing off her fingers. Then licking icing off his fingers.

"We can work out the details later," he said quickly. "Where are the items Miss Granger placed on the dining room table?"

Kiki Disapparated and then reappeared within seconds, handing a white canvas bag to Draco. He took the three objects out of the bag and placed them each on his desk.

The book. The apple. And the jar of honey.

It certainly was a random collection. Hermione could have lived her whole life without seeing these three objects together, without the memory being triggered. He could have lived _his_ whole life, truly alone and longing for her. The thought chilled his blood. He was a fool to have been such a coward.

Draco shook his head and turned to more pleasant thoughts, picking up the jar of honey.

"I'm going back upstairs," he said. "We'll talk about the party in the morning."

"Would you like me to bring up some tea or biscuits, Master?" Kiki said. Her glance flickered to the jar in his hand.

"No, thank you, that won't be necessary," he said with a particularly wicked smile.

* * *

><p><strong>TO BE CONCLUDED... CONTINUE TO THE EPILOGUE<strong>

**Author's Notes:**

**Severus Snape on Voldemort's use of Legilimency, **_**Order of the Phoenix**_**: **

"**In the past it was often the Dark Lord's pleasure to invade the minds of his victims, creating visions designed to torture them into madness." My reference to this was very close in wording, so I thought I would include the original. I believe it's a direct quote from the movie, not the book. My source was Harry Potter Wiki online, topic Legilimency.**

**Reviews are welcomed. :)**


	12. Epilogue: Eight Years Later

**This is it. Happy Epilogue!**

**Thank you for reading **_**Aresto Momentum**_**. I would like to dedicate it to its early readers/reviewers, in particular: erinelle, Preciousblue, Ashlight11, CamJ, JaspersEmotionalGirl, iheartromance777, eau-bleu, wildcardgirl, Gaara's Plaything, Tamcor and Princess Reinette.**

**I should be able to start posting another, shorter Draco/Hermione story within two weeks, much darker than this one. Also a short drunk writing fiction (exactly what it sounds like) which is totally ridiculous.**

**And since I never said it earlier... ****Disclaimer: "Harry Potter" and its characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. No profit is being made by me from this work.**

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><p><strong>EPILOGUE<strong>

**EIGHT YEARS LATER**

Carina Keystone, now only called Kiki by Narcissa Malfoy, had been the head house elf of Malfoy Manor for 49 years. She had served the Great Family of Malfoy for 81 years. And in that time, she had seen some crazy shite, but she had never seen anything to compare to the way Master Draco and Mistress Hermione fought and kissed.

She remembered the first time Mistress Hermione, then Miss Granger, had come to the manor and how she and Master Draco had shown off their spells to each other, so eager to impress. The young witch had traipsed mud all over the dining room table that day, but it _had_ been her birthday, and she had also made the master very happy. That was worth a little mud.

Two Decembers later, Miss Granger had become Young Mistress Malfoy. And by the end of the following October, at dawn on a snowy day, Master Scorpius had been born.

"So what did you think of the second half of the play?" Carina asked. As the theatre was illuminated, she turned to the only other occupant of the Malfoy box, a small boy with white-blond hair and dark eyes.

"I liked the part with the sword and the giant snake getting decapilated," said Scorpius Malfoy.

"Decapi-tated, Master."

"Decapitated. Did Uncle Neville really do that?"

"Yes, he did." Carina didn't mention that the giant, evil snake had once lived in their house and terrorized her staff.

"And Mama and Papa destroyed Hufflepuff's cup and Ravenclaw's di-dem? With basilisk fangs?"

"Yes."

"And then they _kissed_?" Scorpius scrunched up his face and stuck out his tongue to suggest this was the most disgusting thing he'd ever heard of.

"They did kiss, but not until much later."

"I wish they would stop it," the boy muttered. "They kiss _all the time."_

"Yes, they do. But that's what the hero and heroine of a story do after the story ends happily. They kiss each other _all the time._"

"Carina." Scorpius sighed with dramatic patience. "The play's named after Uncle Harry. _He's_ the hero."

The old elf took firm hold of the young boy's hand, preparing to Apparate home.

"He isn't the only one," she said with conviction.

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><p><strong>THE END<strong>

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**A bit more about Carina Keystone, aka Kiki, (I love this elf!) and her importance, in my opinion, to the Malfoy family:**

**Carina: "Carina is a constellation in the southern sky. Its name is Latin for the keel of a ship…"**

**Keel: "****structural keel is a large beam around which the hull of a ship is built… serves as the foundation or spine of the structure, providing the major source of structural strength of the hull…"**

**Keystone: "A keystone is a wedge-shaped stone piece at the apex of a masonry vault or arch, which is the final piece placed during construction and locks all the stone into position, allowing the arch to bear weight. This makes the keystone very important structurally." **

**All quotes above from Wikipedia.**

**Reviews are welcomed. :)**

**Love, Captain Raychill**


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